Dutch

Newton's third law of motion states that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. I'm starting to believe it also pertains to happiness, and that for every ounce of joy in this world, there's a corresponding amount of pain.
Less than six hours after writing my previous fairytale-post about lifetime friendships, I was informed that a friend of mine from years ago was killed in an horrendous workplace accident that day. 


I don't profess to be a close or integral part of Danny Cheney's life. I was dating one of his best mates back in the post-university days, so for about three years I was welcomed into their tight-knit, vodka-swilling, club-dancing group. (I like to think I added a certain cynical Brisbane air to their usual Gold Coast vibe.) 


After the inevitable break-up, I stayed in touch with a couple of the guys, but not Dutch. Still, I was impressed to hear about his career as a globe-trotting engineer, and totally pumped for him when he got married in April. Then, on the weekend, he went to work and didn't go home.


I know of death. I've lost relatives, some colleagues. People I consider friends. Indeed, Dutch is the second person in my life to be electrocuted in a cherry-picker-type machine. (At least Dutch died relatively within hours. It took a month for Tim to die.)


But this is the first time it's been someone from any of my crews (I've been lucky enough to have a few). Having now experienced the beauty of marriage, and to be nudging the deep joy of living as a fully established self, it breaks my heart to imagine losing any of it. The sentiment seems so trite, but the fragility and randomness of life has hit me in the gut.


So my heart goes out to Dutch's wife and step-daughter, his friends, his family. Everyone who knew the big guy with the huge grin. And I will do what everyone else does when loss darkens their landscape: I'll hold my loved ones that much closer, and cherish everything they bring to my world.


If you're reading this, you're one of them.
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