Outrun the Sun

I had known Gary for a good 10 years before I feel that I really knew Gary. He was my husband’s friend. They grew up in the same neighborhood and had known each other since grade school. They rode bikes together. They played football. They went fishing. They were buddies.

When I met Gary I liked him immediately. For years, he, Jenny, Rob and I would have dinners together, tailgating parties together, lots of great times together. Gary was fun. He was a big guy with a beard and a hearty laugh. People wanted to be around him. He was the reason “the group” never lost touch with one another. But, still, I didn’t really know Gary. We talked about work and other things but never discussed important issues. That all changed when he was diagnosed with melanoma.

I worked at the medical school where Gary was treated and when he underwent Interferon treatment, that’s when we had some of our best conversations. Interferon, for those who have not experienced it, typically involves a daily trip to your local cancer center or hospital for an infusion that lasts several hours, not unlike chemotherapy. You sit in a recliner. I would meet him at the door. I believed then—and still do—that no one should ever have to go to a cancer center alone. There’s just something not right about it.

Now, let me quickly point out that Gary was not short on offers from family and friends who wanted to drive him to the center. And on rare occasions he would acquiesce. But Gary was not a take-care-of-me kind of guy. He drove himself to the center even while working full-time. For as long as he could function on his own, he did.

So, when he came for treatments, we would sit and talk. Our talks on those days were different than the talks we’d had over dinner or during football games. We talked about life. We talked about serious issues. I learned how much I really liked Gary and it occurred to me how much I would miss him if he was gone.

Note to self: Don’t take the people around you for granted. They may not be here tomorrow.

We talked about some not-so-serious issues too. I remember showing him a brochure of this great car my dad and I had seen at the annual car show. It wasn’t terribly practical so, of course, I couldn’t seriously consider buying it. “Buy it,” Gary said. I rolled my eyes as if that would never happen. “Why not? Better do it now,” he said. The tone of his voice made me realize that his perspective was completely different than mine. He was living in the moment. He wasn’t planning for tomorrow.

I still drive that car today. It’s by far the fastest, most grown up car I’ve ever owned.

I also remember a conversation we had when Gary was turning 40. I made some crack about how old we were getting. He was just happy to be alive to celebrate. At that point my views on aging changed. I’ve never been concerned about getting older and I embrace each and every birthday. I feel lucky. And I have Gary to thank for it.

Gary taught me many lessons. As I watched him go through different treatments and therapies, I must say that I admired him to the end. I visited him in the hospice center just hours before he passed away and he was surrounded by family and friends. As I said, people just wanted to be around him. I whispered in his ear, “Gary, you’re my hero.” I don’t know if he heard me. I can only hope.

Outrun the Sun was founded in loving memory of John Busse and Gary Patton. Many people have come forward to volunteer, to serve on our board, to do research, to educate, to participate. Together, we want to make a difference. Together, we want to make it stop.

Gary Ray Patton—Our friend