The world changed for Ed Gulley today, and for his wife Carol, and also, for me, and for Maria. Ed has a brain tumor.

Ed and Carol came to see Maria and I this afternoon, they came straight from their doctor’s office to talk to us about the  tumor the size of a golf ball discovered on the back of his head. They call it a Gilioma. Carol announced this on their blog, the Bejosh Farm Journal this morning.

Ed and I are very close friends, in fact, he affirmed my fading faith in friendship. We joke we are brothers from another mother, and somehow, this is true.

This is his challenge, not mine, and I will not take any piece of it from him, but I will be honest and say I was deeply shaken and dispirited by this news, it brought me to my knees.

I was so happy to see him when he came by this afternoon, we threw our arms around each other, just like men like Ed (or me, to be honest), never do.

Ed is what people mean when they describe someone as being larger than life. He is bigger than everyone in almost anything he does, i body and spirit. He is tall, imposing strong, loud, forceful, opinionated, certain, funny and deeply introspective.

His withering gaze can freeze milk in cans, I’ve seen it happen.

Ed is a presence that fills every space he is in, and whatever faces him down this road, he will not be quiet or acquiescent about it.  Ed is absolutely not going quietly into any night.

“Your poor doctors,”  I said when he told me about his brain tumor.”

They are in for it.

Ed cannot abide bureaucrats, rule-makers, stupid people, doctors, prevaricators, lazy people, ideologues, politicians,  or anyone who tells  him to do anything. I suppose this is what makes us brothers.

Ed is a farmer who adores his cows as much (sometimes more) than members of his family, he calls them his “best friends” and knows all of their names.

And he does love his family. And all the animals of the world. And farming, and tractors and farm implements and art and family farms and independence and nature and helping cows give birth.

There was an artist inside of Ed, pushed back all of his life by the grind of the family farm, by cold and hard-driving parents, by the milking and haying and shoveling and calving and long hours in the hot and cold. Like all family farmers, Ed saw his world recede and in most cases, vanish. He made lots of noise about it, to anyone who could listen.

This winter, I noticed Ed was wearing down, he could not get warm, his legs were betraying him. A couple of weeks ago, he fell out of the skidster and hurt himself. Maria and i started hoping he would think of stepping back. He did not. Life seems to have don it for him.

In recent years, the artist has broken out, Ed sells his farm sculptures all over the country at our Open Houses and on his blog.

We talk about creativity and encouragement all of the time, he has opened our eyes to many things, we have tried to do the same for him.

Ed loves his farm but it is true that he is also more than that, he has a great and hungry mind and is just beginning to use it in new and creative ways.

Ed is the best story-teller I have ever known, a world-class bullshitter, he shames me into silence.

He is the brother I never had, the one you call when there is a bear dying in the pasture,  or a dead sheep that needs to be taken away, or a tree that has blown down on a fence, or a path to be cleared out into our back woods. Or when you are just plain scared.

It is calming just to know he is down there on his farm, riding around in his skidster, slaughtering cows, talking to possums, hawks and chickens, hammering out wind chimes,  cursing the bureaucrats and corporatists who set the price of milk, kissing calves on the nose, feeding crippled chickens and hawks.

Ed is the Last Standing Individual, a dinosaur in a changing world, the man who hates conventional wisdom and never plays it safe. And who lives his own life, an increasingly rare thing in the Corporate Nation. Farmers have fed the world, and the world has abandoned farmers in return.

Ed feels that betrayal every day, even when I urge him to move on.

Ed is the guy you call when there is trouble, and today, he is the one who came to us in trouble, and it seemed to alter the nature of our world.

Ed has been a good friend to me, and I will return the favor, insofar as he wishes. I knew even before he arrived not to treat him as a sick person, or to show him any pity. That would not have gone well.

Ed will go to Albany tomorrow to get some thorough tests that will tell his doctors and him what comes next. He expects they will want to do surgery quickly, he is prepared to accept his fate, whatever it is. The tumor could be benign and simple to remove, or it could be something else,  he doesn’t know.

Like me, he respects life, he does not try to control it.

He came, I think,  to thank Maria and I for challenging him to see the world beyond farming and to recognize his creative spark. It means a lot to him. We were so touched he wanted to tell us this today. We were both in  tears when he left.

Ed said he is giving up farming almost immediately, and dividing the farm up among his five children. Bejosh Farm is a magical place, we love going there. Finally, letting go. He is much-loved in the farming community, farm families are already organizing to launch a fund-raiser on his behalf. I’ll share the details when they become available.

I was eager to see Ed and understand what my role will be in his illness. I understood right away what he wants from me: nothing.

He wants me to listen and nothing more, and in my hospice and Mansion work, I have finally learned to be a good and faithful listener. I can’t make him better, heal his tumor, bring back the life that just changed irrevocably. His children have already taken up the daily farming tasks. I am not there to tell him everything is okay, everything is not okay.

We talked for three good and long hours today, the force is very much alive in Ed. By tomorrow afternoon the doctors and nurses will be rolling their eyes, cowering,  and running for cover. Much of this is bluster. Ed never hurts anyone, his heart, like everything else about him, is big.

Whatever the doctors say, Ed is planning a trip to see the things he wants to see – a rodeo in Montana, some Amish friends in Pennsylvania, a pub in Ireland. “I want to live,” he said, “and get out there.” One thing I have learned about Ed is that when he says he is going to do something, he will do it.

So Ed: I love you dear brother, it broke my heart a bit to hear this news, none of us are larger than life, when it comes down to it. 

 

If anyone can triumph over this Giloma, it will be you. If not,  you will live in grace.  I am not here to tell you it will be fine, or that it won’t, that is not my business, and your right.

 

I am not sad for you, but grateful for your friendship and love.

When we least expect it, life challenges us to test our courage, faith and willingness to change and grow.

There is no point in pretending that such a thing hasn’t happened, or in claiming to be ill-prepared. The challenge does not wait for us to come along, life  never looks back, or pauses for us. We accept life or are consumed by it, and always, always, we learn to let go, we let go.

Godspeed, when I close my eyes, I see the angels gathering to blow the wind gathering at  your back.