R.I.P.

I was going to entertain you today with stories of me falling off chairs,,  getting stuck in a bathroom stall in the dark and having my head compared to a pimple. But not today.

Today, I'm going to talk about a man. A man who had a great impact on my life, and on many others.

Ian was my boss, in charge of making sure everything ran smoothly in our real estate office. He was the reason I went to work there back in 2005. He was the reason I stayed there. He was supportive, and kind, and gentle, and fearless.

Ian passed away last Saturday after a four-year battle with cancer. 

The entire office, the one I just returned to after a two-year absence, is in shock and a state of utter despair. Because Ian was a man who meant what he said and said what he meant, who always had nothing but wonderful things to say about everything (including how he felt, even when he felt like utter crap), and about everyone he met.

Ian and I had more of a relationship than just manager and realtor. We shared jokes, we shared the same views on religion and god, and we also shared a special bond regarding cancer. When I told Ian about Dee's fight with cancer, he became a friend, someone who'd been there and knew what it was. He and Dee had a special connection, and it touched me deeply whenever Ian would ask about the kids. Which he did often.

Ian fought prostate cancer, and then, a year later, discovered he had colon cancer. This was not a man who abused his body. And yet, somehow the disease found him, and wouldn't let him go. No matter how tough things were, however, Ian always had a smile, and whenever you asked him how he was doing, he had nothing but positive things to say: "If I was doing any better I'd be too good," he say. I knew that couldn't be the honest truth, but this was his way of dealing. 

He also refused to burden anyone else with his troubles and his pain, which is more than anyone I know could do, especially when going through what he did.

This is a man who was on one form or other of chemotherapy for four years, who had his liver severed and removed, one lobe at a time, all in an attempt to live.

Ian will live in my heart forever.

If you can hear me Ian, I want to thank you for giving me the honour of meeting you and knowing you. You are one in a million. See you in a while. We'll go for a ride on some nice Harleys.