November has always been one of those months I could do without. It's grayness weighs on me perhaps more than any single month of the year. And it is riddled with anniversaries that I'd rather forget, as these are not moments to celebrate, but moments to mourn. It also contains the birthdays of many of those I have said good-bye to, prematurely. No, November, in all it's barren somberness, marks a time of mourning for me.  

You see, November marks most of the deaths in my life. When I was 8, my uncle was murdered; at 13, my grandfather died; at 16, another of my dad's brothers passed. When I was 33, it was my grandmother's time. While each of these passings had an effect on me, no one of them had the power to stop time, as my friend Jon Sautner's did. If he'd lived, he'd be celebrating his 39th birthday at the end of the month. But, 19 years ago today, he died. And he was 19.  

I met BJ early on in his freshman year. There were 3 of them in the quad, two Jons and a Scott. Keeping the Jons straight was confusing, so they quickly became Big Jon and Little Jon. But to me, he was always BJ. He was smart, funny, and kind. He introduced me to the theory behind Quantum Physics and taught me about fractals.

And on this day, every year, I remember the phone call that dropped me to my knees, sending my world into a tailspin. I met with the technical director for the one-woman show I was doing the scenic and lighting design for right after I got the news. I remember telling him the news, him getting up to hand me a box of kleenex, and me motioning it away. The show was less than 2 weeks away and people were counting on me, I had to keep it together, for them, as much as myself. Afterall, the show must go on. I was in shock.  

Two weeks earlier, he'd been rushed to University Hospital. He was unconscious and jaundiced. Before 48 hours would pass, they'd diagnosed him with an unidentified strain of Hepatitis. He was in full liver and renal failure. He was on dialysis and awaited a liver transplant. I still have the speeding ticket I got on my way to the hospital that night... I doing 55 in a 35. 

A week later, things were looking brighter. He'd gotten the liver he desperately needed. His kidneys began functioning on their own, and I was allowed in to see him. (His mother told his doctors that I was the closest thing to a girlfriend BJ'd ever had, so I was the only non-family member allowed in to see him.) That Monday, we'd been given the all clear and we were all allowed in to see him. He was in and out of consciousness, but we knew he could hear us. I told him about the show, and everything else going on. I had rehearsal to get back for, so I said my goodbyes. 

Less than an hour later, I was back. My car had been towed for being parked in a 4-6pm No Parking Zone. (In my defense, the tree was hiding the sign.) I went back to his room and told him, sarcastically, that I'd now gotten a speeding ticket AND towed, because of him... and that he'd better not be there the next Monday, because I couldn't afford what would happen next. I gave him a hug and kiss goodbye, and when I walked out of his room, I looked back, knowing, I didn't have to worry about what was to come.  

The next morning, he was gone.   

Most of the time following BJ's death is nebulous, at best. I acutely remember singing at his funeral, but vaguely remember the memorial and burial. I remember the pity I felt for his estranged father, as he stood there, alone in his own grief. But I remember very little else. I know that so many of us who'd come together in his death, drifted apart as life moved on. Within 5 years, we'd gone our own ways.

So every year, I celebrate the times we had, and mourn the times that were taken from us. We had just two short years together. And in the years that have passed, I've lost track of virtually all of those that mourned beside me as we buried him. And I wonder how many of them stop to remember him too...