The wellness check answered the question. Dean was gone.

I want to believe his passing was quick, painless, perhaps an aneurysm, a massive coronary while sleeping, and with the gift of a new day, Dean never woke up. A message from his sister Rebecca shared the news. I had not spoken to Dean in a while and had noticed his activity absence on Facebook (FB).  Dean had been on my mind.

I remembered his last FB comment, sexist and teasing about a photo that captured kitchen table clutter and his command to clean up. (I clutter, and the kitchen table is the holding place for mail, papers, and other items that need a temporary place.)

I had the honor of being Dean Scott Chapman’s friend for more than 20 years. We were matched through E-Harmony, the  #1 trusted dating app, and Dean, was sure we were perfectly matched because our compatibility points were high. I laughed that off and concluded that despite the match, we probably couldn’t stand each other after five minutes of being in a room together. I cannot explain quite why, but I had a sense that the matching would not translate in a face-2-face setting. Despite my lack of faith or belief in the system, I always thought we would eventually meet. I imagined going to a milestone birthday or surprising Dean while attending a conference and popping in to buy him a coffee. Or picking a midway destination, perhaps Chicago or another city, and visiting museums, viewing cityscapes, and taking too many photographs. Throughout the years we toyed with the idea of meeting and even promised we would marry in 2020 if we were both still single. Little did we know, time would allow none of that.

Dean and I were matched in our gifts of gab. Silences were easy, nothing forced, although this east coast girl found his mid-western pace of talking slow. Dean was an attentive listener, interested in what one had to say.

We shared family tales, work dramas, and flirtatious banter. We annually exchanged Christmas gifts and shared creative pieces we had written. Dean was an enthusiastic reader and supporter of my writing. I hope I provided the same. His voice was strong, and his perspective singular. He saw the world through a unique lens, and although colorblind, was able to capture the spectrum of colors and beauty in his photographs and his words.

I knew Dean as a brilliant mind, traditional in much of his thinking, defender of nation and people he loved. He was an outdoorsman and captured wildlife with guns and a camera.

Dean regularly sent me pictures and exhibition notices about Frida Kahlo – he knew how much I admired her. He shared images of Van Gogh, Amisani, Feininger, Klee, and Gauguin, to name a few. Dean saw and appreciated beauty.

Dean was a foodie – we’d talk food and Austin. He would recommend haunts and must-see and eat places. I also thought we might meet there, our calendars aligned – he roaming and I visiting family. Our meeting would have been poetic – keeping Austin weird.

Dean knew the value of fine liquor, a quality haberdashery, a skilled tailor, a good Stogie, and no doubt could share the origins and history of cigars as well. He loved motorcycles, pictures of girls on bikes, and Saabs.

Three years ago, a medical condition resulted in the amputation of his leg. Throughout a lengthy hospital stay, Dean faced additional complications and invasive procedures. He suffered, fought himself back to life, and believed in possibilities.

We joked about getting the prosthesis outfitted with a beer and wine opener, and I assured Dean the leg would be a chic magnet. He could make up stories about how he lost it – sharks being one tale. I sent him a little plastic shark with a leg in the mouth. Dean would pose them and take pictures (we also shared off-beat humor).  I sent a second because he shared how much fun he had with the first, and it was looking a bit worn. Despite his health struggles, he found worth in living, life mattered. I was impressed with Dean’s will to live and his search for meaning in all of his experiences.

Dean used to tease that I was an old broad, I am just a wee bit older than he, but he commented he loved older women. He called me Laurka, insisting he read my name written so in a publication. I never saw it, but the name stuck.

Dean appreciated Meatloaf – the musician. I heard, Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad the other day, and I made up a story about his acceptance of his lot and death. I don’t know how he felt about death and dying, we never talked about our passing, our parents vaguely and aging, but never our mortality. I’d be mad and arrive like A Bat Out of Hell.  

I want to believe in messages, and walking along the seaside boardwalk I saw Sparky, one of Dean’s pseudonyms written on a boat, I was sure it was a sign. I thought about him, and my dear friend Lisa cautioned wisely, as I relived conversations and worried that I had not been enough of a friend to Dean and perhaps had missed an opportunity. She said, “Embrace the romance for what it was, not what it wasn’t.” I am proud to call Dean friend. He knew what loyalty meant – it never wavered.

The lesson I have decided is love now, love hard, love, with no regrets. “Dean,” I insisted, “the real story is that we haven’t met, let’s not spoil that.” And now, heaven only knows.

While the timing is too soon, I hope that the Valkyries descended with thunder to welcome Dean to Valhalla, prepared a hearth fire, opened barrels of mead ready for the pour, and the golden Glasir showed ever so brightly.

The Norseman, Viking Prayer for Dean...
Lo, there
Do I see my father
Lo, there
Do I see my mother and my sisters,
and my brothers
Lo, there
Do I see the lne of my people back to the beginning
Lo, they do call to me
They bid me take my place among them
In the halls of Valhalla
Where the brave my live
FOREVER