He was 40.

I'm still in a bit of a state of shock after receiving the news yesterday that my former roommate and friend of nearly 20 years died from liver disease.

I spoke to his wife last night, (she and their children are in Chicago, he was with his parents in Kentucky) who said she'd had a conversation with him the night before and he didn't indicate that he was feeling any different at all. He'd had a rough time, apparently rougher than he let on to a lot of us. She was surprised that I didn't know he was on a waiting list for a liver transplant, but in my last conversation with him, he had me thinking that he was recovering. He said he was feeling better, but that he had a long way to go.

He was planning to go to Chicago to be with his children this weekend for Father's Day. Instead, they're driving to Kentucky to say goodbye.

James Estill Isaacs

James Estill Isaacs, 40, passed away Wednesday, June 11, 2008, at the home of his parents in Richmond.

He was born in Richmond, KY on April 30, 1968, was a graduate of Madison Central High School and was an Eagle Scout.

In addition to his wife, James is survived by a son, a daughter, and his parents.

Services will be held at 2:00 p.m. Saturday. Visitation will be from 5 – 9:00 p.m. Friday and until service time on Saturday.

(I deleted family member names)

May his memory be eternal.

When I finally got up the nerve to call his mother tonight, the first thing she wanted to know was how I was doing. I told her that I was more concerned with how she was doing. Her words were simply put: "I'm not good." I can only imagine that what she was feeling is a million times more than anything I could even imagine. She shared with me that it was no accident that I didn't know how sick he was. He didn't want anyone to know just how far his disease had advanced. She said she was glad that she was with him when he took his last breath. I think if he had to go at such a young age, it was a blessing that they were together, just as they were when his life began. She told me that she loved me, and was happy to know that I would be coming to Kentucky this weekend.

And all I really knew to say was, "I'm so sorry."

When I think of James, I think about the number of people he was able to bring together. He was a friend to everyone, couldn't wait to introduce new friends to old friends, and literally lit up when he was surrounded by the all the people he cared about. This weekend I will see people I have not seen in over ten years. People I met through him and people who had been my friends prior to knowing him who he befriended instantly. I will meet their spouses and see their children. I'll be flooded with memories of the goofy things we did "back then," how our friendship endured some of the worst times in our lives, and how--never in a million years--I would have expected to be attending James' funeral.

I'll remember how he fed the cat so much goose liver that I thought she was going to explode, how he created a cloud of toxic gas in our apartment when he mixed cleanser and bleach to clean the bath tub, and when I eat baked spaghetti, which he was especially good at making. I'll think about him when I see an old Bronco II on the road, and how the missing "c" on his vehicle earned it the name "The Brono," and how he would make sun tea on its hood. I'll remember the hilarity of his karaoke performances, his precision at shooting pool, the danger everyone felt they were in when he was throwing darts, the volume of his laughter, and how excited he looked in the photo of him with Jerry Springer. I'll think of him when I see "The Price is Right," and laugh quietly to myself when I remember just how entertained everyone was by his overwhelming reaction to winning a deck of cards when we auditioned for "Wheel of Fortune." I don't know how--or why--he did it, but he had created and memorized a gender for each letter of the alphabet. "A is a boy, B is a girl, C is...." and no matter how many times I tried to trip him up, thinking that he made this up each time he went through it, he did it the exact same way.

I'll remember how excited I was for him when he got engaged to the wonderful girl who became his beautiful wife, when he asked me to be the best man in his wedding, how nervous he was when he spoke the vows he had written for their ceremony with a mouth so dry you could almost hear it crack, and how so many of us hoped that day would be the start of their "happily ever after." I'll remember how patient he was during his wife's first pregnancy, how quickly he could bolt across the room to change the thermostat setting when she was either hot... or cold... or hot again, the joy on his face when he introduced the world to his newborn son, how proud he was of the child he invited you to hold, and the thrill in his voice when he described his beautiful daughter as looking "just like" his mother.

I'll remember how huge his heart was, how much he cared for the people he surrounded himself with, and how hard he tried to please everyone.

James lived large. He didn't know any other way to live. His passing will leave an enormous hole in my life, as I'm sure it will in the lives of everyone that he brought together.

David stayed close to me last night after I explained to him what was going on, and especially after I had spoken to James' wife. I could see he was feeling awkward, so I thought I would talk to him about that while I was ordering the flowers to send to the funeral home.

I told him that I know this is awkward for him.

"It is."

"It's okay. I know you don't know what to say, and sometimes there just aren't any words. I know. I don't know what to say to his wife. I don't know what to say to his parents. It's okay that you don't know what to say to me right now. It's completely normal. I'm really sorry if I've made you feel uneasy. I'm not really even sure what to think right now. I don't know how to describe how this feels."

"You seem upset."

"I am... because it's upsetting. I won't see my friend get well. I won't speak to him or hear from him again. He won't see his children grow up. They will grow up without their dad. My heart is breaking for his mother and father, who have just lost their only child. It's very, very sad."

He just stood there looking at me. Very calm, but still uneasy. That's when the online florist wouldn't let me process my order without writing a message for the card that would accompany the flowers.

And I got a little more upset.

"And now I can't come up with the words to put on the card to go with his flowers."

He stayed within an eye-shot of me while I tried to figure out what to say. I decided on "With fond memories of a good friend. Always, Don." That took me almost an hour.

Then I moved from the table to sit on the couch and just "be" for a minute.

"I hope you never have to go through anything like this, but unfortunately, it's a part of life."

He just nodded.

"I would be lying if I said that it doesn't hurt. It hurts a lot."

He nodded again.

Whatever emotions had been brewing in me since my mother called me with the news when I got home from work yesterday started to surface. Before the sobs began, I excused myself and went to the bathroom.

I came back a few minutes later and quipped that my friend would have probably gotten angry with me if I didn't get upset. It was time for him to go to bed, so he gave me a long hug, told me he loved me and as he was heading up the steps he turned and said, "I'm sorry."

"You know, those are about the only words that anyone can say when something like this happens. You did a good job choosing what to say. Thank you for saying that."

He stopped on the first landing, "I love you, Dad."

"I love you, too."

As he finished the walk up the stairs to his room, I began to write.