Today I’m trying to find words for a loss that feels too big for language. I just found out today that on June 28th, I lost one of my close friends to ALS. He was 30 years of my life – not just a friend, but a brother, a fellow adventurer, and a force of nature who refused to accept “no” as an answer.
The College Days
We met in college, where we were quite the pair – practically flunking out together while somehow managing to form a bond that would last three decades. Those were the days when grades seemed less important than the friendships we were building and the adventures we were planning. We were part of a trio of amigos, inseparable for nearly four years, learning about life, fast motorcycles, fast cars, and yes, beautiful women too.
Looking back, those “failures” in college weren’t failures at all. We were learning different lessons – about loyalty, about taking risks, about saying yes to life even when the conventional path seemed uncertain.
The Great Adventure
After college, when most people were settling into predictable careers, my friend looked at me with that characteristic grin and suggested we move halfway across the country. On a whim. Why not? That was his philosophy – why not take the leap, why not see what’s out there, why not bet on ourselves and each other?
So we did. We packed up our lives and moved, and for two years we shared an apartment and continued our education in living. Those were formative years – before I met my first wife, before life got complicated with mortgages and responsibilities and the weight of adulthood. We were still young enough to believe anything was possible, and my friend was living proof that maybe it was.
The Man Who Never Took No for an Answer
Here’s what you need to understand about my friend: he didn’t know how to quit. If someone told him something was impossible, he would just grin, shake his head yes, and make it happen anyway. It wasn’t arrogance – it was pure, unstoppable optimism paired with an incredible work ethic.
I taught him a little computer knowledge once, just the basics. He took that small foundation and built an empire. He started selling computer memory, learning the business from the ground up. Over the years, I watched him grow, evolve, and eventually co-found a high-tech company as CTO. From those humble beginnings to becoming a genuine force in the tech world – that was just who he was. He saw opportunity where others saw obstacles.
The Distance Between Us
Life took us in different directions over the past 15 years. We’d see each other in person once or twice a year, talk on the phone every other month. I know there were friends who were closer to him during this last decade, people who saw him more regularly, who were part of his daily life in ways I wasn’t anymore.
But here’s what made our friendship special: time and distance never diminished it. I knew that anytime I needed to reach out to him, for anything, he would pick up the phone. He would talk to me long enough to help me sort out whatever issues I was facing. And he would end the conversation the same way every time: “Not a problem.” Those three words were his signature – not just because he was solving my problems, but because in his worldview, problems were just puzzles waiting to be solved.
Living with ALS
I can’t imagine how difficult this past period must have been for him, facing ALS with the same determination he brought to everything else. He never disclosed his condition to me, maybe not to many people at all. ALS is cruel in its progression, stealing physical capability while leaving the mind intact. For someone who was such a force of nature, such a doer and builder and problem-solver, it must have been its own special kind of challenge.
But knowing him, I’m certain he faced it with that same characteristic grin, that same refusal to accept defeat. Even when his body was failing him, I bet he was still finding ways to say “yes” to life, still looking for problems to solve and people to help.
What He Taught Me
My friend taught me that “no” is just the beginning of a conversation. He taught me that taking risks with people you trust isn’t really risk at all – it’s investment in possibility. He showed me that success isn’t about where you start; it’s about what you do with whatever knowledge and opportunities come your way.
Most importantly, he taught me about the kind of friend everyone deserves to have and everyone should strive to be: the person who picks up the phone, who listens long enough to understand, who says “not a problem” and means it.
The Grief
Grief is strange. It comes in waves, catching you off guard when you least expect it. I’ll think about calling him to tell him something funny, or ask his advice about a problem, and then remember that his phone won’t ring to him anymore. There’s a specific kind of sadness in losing someone who was always just a phone call away.
But there’s gratitude too. Thirty years of friendship, of shared adventures, of late-night conversations and problems solved and that infectious optimism that made everything seem possible. Not everyone gets a friend like that. Not everyone gets three decades of “not a problem” whenever they need it most.
A Life Well Lived
My friend lived more in his years than many people live in twice the time. He said yes to adventure, yes to risk, yes to building something meaningful. He was a husband, a father, a friend, a business partner, a mentor to many. He was someone who made the world a little bit better by refusing to accept that things couldn’t be done.
He was a force of nature, and forces of nature don’t really die – they just change form. His influence, his optimism, his “never take no for an answer” spirit lives on in everyone whose life he touched.
I’m going to miss him terribly. But I’m also going to try to carry forward some of that force-of-nature energy, that willingness to take risks and help friends and grin in the face of obstacles.
After all, as he would say: “Not a problem.”
Rest in peace, my friend. Thank you for thirty years of showing me what it means to live fully and love deeply. You will be greatly missed, but never forgotten.
