Talkin' Shit About A Pretty Sunset

About seven weeks ago my friend Nate Osborn had back problems so he went into the doctor to get it checked out. The doctors found a cancerous tumor lodged on his spine so they immediately started chemotherapy but the situation was very grim and they soon gave him a severe prognosis.

His wife moved him down to Tijuana where they could try some experimental treatment but he wasn't in good enough health to go through with it. Last Thursday, Nate died. He was 43.

I was lucky enough to be able to speak with him less than 48 hours before he died. And, wow, how strange. I called down to the Tijuana hospital and spoke with his wife for a few minutes about his condition. She said Nate had an oxygen mask on and couldn't respond to me but his hearing was fine. So she held the phone up to his ear while I scrambled for the right words, knowing that they would be my last to him. I told him I was sure I'd see him back home riding his bike downtown like he always did. That was the last I spoke with him.

I met Nate about six years ago through activism, and soon after, he joined a soccer team I'd started. He gained the nickname "The Blizzard of Os" because of his energy. He was a longtime bike currier and I'd never have expected him to die so soon. Nate was one of the kindest, most sincere people I've known. No one disliked him.

Apparently in his last few hours he was talking about traveling. That's what I want to be talking about in my final days alive.