This is a hard one...

I lost a really good friend this week. A really good teacher. A really good journalist. A really good man to know.
I know I want to write about this, but this is hard.
On Sunday evening I went to a funeral on Chicago's South Side to say goodbye to Jim Sulski--an adviser at The Chronicle who was the first to steer me in the right direction while studying journalism at Columbia.
It's a strange thing about my relationship with Sulski. I wasn't one of the students who frequented his office or kept in much touch with him once I graduated. But when I found out he was dying, something just clicked inside of me. Something just said I needed to say goodbye.
So along with a few of the other Chronicle kids, I drove to his house Wednesday evening. A Christmas tree was lit in front window of his home when I pulled up, and suddenly memories flooded into my mind of how just last year I was at this same house, throwing back delicious bottles of pop that he got from a factory nearby with this kids. His wife, Jo, filled the kitchen with a spread even the most talented chefs would be envious of. I ate so much that night I got sick.
We found out Sulski had cancer our last year at the paper. I remember exactly where I was sitting when I found out. I remember holding back tears. I remember wondering if he would pull through.
But he did pull through that year, and the next, and the next.
We walked into the front entrance of his home only to find out he was just moments away from forever leaving this world he impacted so greatly. Jo hugged us. All of us. I could feel her breaking in my arms. But even in that moment, she was gracious as always. I couldn't imagine knowing my husband was near moments from death and still having the courtesy to come to the front door and say hello.
When we walked back outside into the cold, all of the emotions rushed out of me. It was as though all of my anger, all of my sadness was pouring out so quickly I almost couldn't breathe. I wasn't just crying, I was sobbing.
It was strange though. I was almost embarrassed because I wasn't as close to Sulski like the rest of my Chronicle friend. I felt guilty that I couldn't hold myself together when they could. But death and cancer hurt. They bring out the deepest of emotions that are buried so deep, even we are surprised when they are exposed.
Eventually we made our way to a bar not far from Sulski's house where we spent the rest of the night talking about our favorite memories over some beers (or a diet coke in my case). It was hard though. I am not one to share after death. I don't like how everyone can so quickly switch into the "he is no longer here" mode.
I lost my grandpa to cancer a week before I graduated high school. I don't remember my last day at school. I don't remember saying goodbye to any of my friends. I just remember thinking over and over and over again about what it was like to be by his side when he died. It was the most beautiful and most painful thing I have ever experienced.
So when we went to Sulski's funeral on Sunday, I wasn't ready to go through the remembrance process just yet. I had to work that day, so I came alone at a time that I knew all The Chronicle kids would be there. I said my hellos, caught up with old friends I hadn't seen in awhile, and eventually made my way to his coffin. I didn't cry when I saw him, in fact I could barley keep my thoughts straight.
Then I watched Cyryl. He knelt down, grabbed Sulski's hand and said a prayer. That moment was just so powerful to me for some reason. I again became overwhelmed with emotion, grabbing a tissue from a box sitting on the seat next me. I could hear the quiet cries of the man sitting next me and was surprised to look up and see it was John Kass-- a great columnist with the Chicago Tribune.
Kass started his career in journalism alongside Sulski and to me, he is a celebrity. We shared some kind words before he left for the evening. I later saw Richard Roeper- a famous columnist with the Chicago Sun Times--embracing who I think was Sulski's mother.
You knew some powerful people Sulski. I envy the life you led. You never took life seriously. You loved hard. You were an constant example of how to reinvent yourself only to become more happy.
I miss you. I really do. We all do. Thank you for everything you gave me.