The Best Is Yet To Come

The Best Is Yet To Come

Commentary by: Bill the Butcher

That was his motto, and one of the last things he ever said to what he told the nurse was his “best friend,” while in his final hour at the VA hospital.

He was a retired Sargent Major, three bronze stars, a silver, and a purple heart, Vietnam! He was married to his “best friend’s” ex-wife, jokingly referred to as his “husband in law.” He loved to work with wood. He built altars for the church, carved images in wood, and doubled the size of his house, all by himself. He cooked, too. He could’ve cooked a combat boot and made it taste like prime rib.

He was married to his first wife, Jackie, for forty-five years, and she finally died on him. He lived alone for a while until he met the lady he’d spend the rest of his life with. She had a heart condition and no medical, so “The old sarge” fixed that. He married her and being a widower, he could give her his benefits. Literally saved her life. But life is never fair. He could save her life, but he could not save his own. As he tinkered in his wood shop, within his lungs Agent Orange was doing what it was always designed to do, and what the Viet Cong had started his own government finished!

He continued to work on his old house, which was never done, and moved his friend there to watch over it for him. At first, he didn’t know how to take his friend, freshly returning from California. Ponytail down to the middle of his back, with a full bar in his room, the sarge being a tea totaler, and an endless stream of visitors dropping by to have drinks and discuss Texas politics. Being from Buffalo, New York, he didn’t even think Texas HAD politics, and any thought of secession was beyond him.

A year or so later as he read the pamphlets he found lying around the house he began to understand more and more that the America he’d fought for in Vietnam was long gone. His friend watched his old house while he lived in a new one he’d bought for his new wife.

As they talked over three years he developed a dream. Listening to tales of the California desert, he got a yearning to travel to a place called Ocotillo Wells. The last time he was there was in the 60s, when he drove a tank, training for war. Now he wanted to drive a dune buggy, chase beach bunnies across the desert and sit by the fire at night with others like him talking about the used to be. But time was running out for him. What was originally thought to be Parkinson’s ended up being called Alzheimer’s, and finally got called what it really was . . . CANCER! Agent Orange had ravaged his entire body. With each trip to the VA the diagnosis was fine tuned, and Ocotillo Wells drifted farther, and farther away. During this time he bought yet another home in Brigham City, Utah. He called it the big blue house, and it was. He shuffled between Utah and Texas trying to replace the blood that Agent Orange was slowly drinking.

When he had remarried, he also inherited five children. Like his bride, they too were covered by his military benefits and enjoyed all the trimmings after he adopted them. He had only one daughter by his deceased first wife, and he insisted for the youngest boy to be renamed after him. He finally had a son! And they were partners!

From that point it was endless trips to get blood, and endless hours on the couch. The army gave him a Hoveround as his legs began to fail but he couldn’t figure out how to drive it until his friend showed him that it steered just like a tank. After that he and “Junior” explored the neighborhood all the way down to the supermarket. Although he could use his Hoveround, he could no longer drive a car and it humiliated him to have his “husband in law” load him up in the passenger’s seat for yet another trip to the hospital. But he and his little buddy could sure as hell find that neighborhood store!

A week before he died he was looking for an RV to go to California. He knew better. It was for his little “buddies.” When he was being taken to the VA for the last time he told Junior, “Men don’t cry.” He checked into the VA that Friday. As he sank lower and lower on Monday he called his friend. He wanted an order of chicken wings and his Chihuahua that had replaced the one that he’d had for fourteen years until it died. The nursing staff let the little dog in, and he fed it the wings.

He told the nurses about his best friend. When the priest came to administer the last rites, he couldn’t come up with any sins to confess. He asked which direction Ocotillo Wells was, and his friend pointed through the window toward the west. He turned his head that way and said, “The best is yet to come.” He told his friend to take the little dog home and he would be left to take his last hill.

They transferred him to ICU, and an hour later, looking at his wife, said, “Oh, baby,” and reported to his last command. A simple phone call to family, “He’s gone.” was his obituary.

Over the next few days there was the usual rush to finalize all the paperwork. He’d wanted to be at Arlington. He got San Antonio. About a week later his “best friend” was napping alone, when he heard a familiar voice call his name. Then, he clearly heard, “The best is yet to come!” He got up and walked to the front door and looked to the west. There was a great sadness and a sense of loss as he realized that the old sarge would never get to Ocotillo Wells, but then he realized . . . maybe he just did!

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