Yes, I Did Make a Difference

Some of us would like to think we made a difference in someone else's life, someone who was not blood or otherwise linked to us in any way. I'm very happy to report that not only did I make a difference in one man's life, he actually told me just how it happened. Over the years he mentioned it several more times, so I guess he was telling the truth.

His name was Ron B., and I use that appelation because we met in Alcoholics Anonymous. I don't mind if you know I'm a recovered drunk, but I don't have the right to tell you that anyone else is. Anyway, I used to attend a Men's Stag Meeting of A. A. on Monday nights on Radford Avenue in Studio City, California. Radford Avenue ran right beside the CBS Studios where "Rosanne" and many other shows were taped. I met Ron in 1987, the year I settled in Los Angeles and began to attend all those wonderful stag meetings, which I blogged about earlier.

First of all, Ron attracted attention because he wore many pieces of metal in his body, most of which one could see (I took his word for the others), and he had at least his fair share of tattoos. He had so many pieces of metal hanging from his ears that he almost jingled when he walked. And he was a rocket scientist, really! He worked for N. A. S. A., and his skills were such that he participated in some of the most interesting launches in the latter part of the century, such as the Mars probes. He was intelligent, well read, a curmudgeon before his time, and I grew to love him as a brother.

One particular Monday night, Ron was called on to share from the podium. As he shared, I noticed that he "downed" himself a lot, saying one negative thing after another about himself. Though I didn't know him except casually at the time, I stopped him after the meeting and asked him if he minded some observations on what he said. He agreed to listen, and I told him that if he continued to think and speak negatively about himself, he would eventually believe the negatives, if he didn't already. I explained that even as adults, we react to our own words as a child would if a parent continually criticizes and finds fault. How many children who turned out less than they could have were told as children that they were and always would be losers? My guess is that it was quite a few.

Ron looked at me as if I'd told him his name for the first time. He took this in, and I know he thought about it, as he later told me that it was one of the singlemost important comments anybody had ever made to him. Ron told me that it changed his life. I tried the false modesty route, but he wouldn't allow it. Finally, I said what I should've said right away, "Thank you." As a gay man, Ron truly trusted few straight men, and I was surprised that he asked me to be his sponsor in the A. A. program. I served in that capacity for several years. Then he stopped coming to the Men's Stag and went almost exclusively to gay N. A. meetings in Los Angeles. He also found another gay man for a sponsor, which I applauded when he asked if it would hurt my feelings. It didn't. He did exactly what he needed to do to continue in sobriety. Ron also told me later that he passed on what I said to him that night in 1987 to every man he sponsored in
A. A. and N. A.

There was something else about Ron that was immediately noticeable; one of his arms was shrunken, and he walked with a combination of limp and shuffle, the aftermath of childhood polio. Ron died in the Spring of 2004, the final result of that once dreaded disease. He had been going downhill slowly, and he knew it was inevitable, though he died earlier than most of would like. He was only 63. I missed his memorial service only because I didn't know about it. I telephoned him one day in April about getting together and left a message on his answering machine. It was his voice that greeted me when I called, so I fully expected to hear back from him. Instead I received a call from one of Ron's gay friends that he had died the month before. He said they didn't have time to call everybody, though I'm not sure what that meant.

I was angry at first, but I realized quickly (whew!) that it's not all about me. It was about Ron, and I know he knew I loved him because I told him each time we spoke. I think of him often, and I'm still saddened that he's not sharing the world with us. Rest in peace my dear, old friend.