A celebration of life...

I can’t say as I have ever been to anything quite like it.
A celebration of Dennis Hemus’ life, held at the Great Hall at Panorama Mountain Village, had one very significant difference when compared to other such celebrations I have attended.
Dennis himself was there.
Smiling, laughing, talking, loving.
And saying goodbye on his own terms.
A couple of hundred people, all of whom have their own stories and memories of Dennis, gathered to hear a eulogy, music, and stories about him, as well as listen to Dennis recite The Shooting of Dan McGrew.
It was… well… perfect.
Dennis has lived with multiple myloma for seven years. It is not like other cancers. Multiple myloma (MM) has no cure.
Den has always known this, as have his friends and family.
About a week ago Dennis was told he had only a few days to live. His children were called, friends and family arrived, and then, it would seem, Dennis decided to wait a little longer. So the celebration of life he would attend was planned.
As Roscoe Dalke, who was for lack of a better term the emcee of the afternoon pointed out, we always say we wish we had a few more moments with those that leave us. And this was just such a chance.
When editor Ian Cobb asked me to take on the task of writing about Dennis’ life for The Echo, I was honoured and accepted without a second thought.
When I spoke to Dennis about writing about his life, I agreed to wait until after he is gone. That piece has yet to be written.
But this column is to tell about the celebration I was so honoured to be present at. It is me telling all of you, and him, my own feelings on what it was meant to me to work with him on stories about the injustices of Celgene and their atrocious abuse of power regarding the drug Thalomid, a brand name version of thalidomide that has huge benefits for MM patients but Celgene charges obscenely for. Dennis has worked tirelessly for years to make a difference for other MM patients, fought to make Celgene accountable for their actions, and done so in an absolutely selfless manner.
It is to tell about the man that I got to know over the past few years, come to call my friend, come to admire, respect, and care deeply about.
This column is for you Dennis.
We had many conversations together, during some of which you told me things you never meant to go public, and I promise you they never will.
Those conversations meant a great deal to me.
I remember one evening in particular.
It was a few years ago. We were walking around the Windermere Cemetery, preparing a story for the Relay For Life. You proudly showed me the Rotary Columbarium, we wandered around, looked at the old grave markers, and sat on the bench as the evening passed us.
You asked me then to never make you out to be a hero.
“I am not a hero,” you told me as we watched the sun set over Lake Windermere. “I am just a guy trying to stay alive.”
I told you I would not.
Neither of us talked for a few moments, and I took a photo of you that still hangs on my wall.
Sorry Den. Just this once, I have to break my word to you. You see, a hero is just what you are. They way you have fought doggedly against Celgene, for people you have never met, for people who will develop MM and you will never meet.
For that, you are a hero, and I am so blessed to have gotten to know you.
For the rest, you are my friend.
For the courage and grace you have shown, for never failing to smile, for never feeling sorry for yourself, for being so grateful for the life you have had.
For allowing me to take a small part in the Celgene stories, though bigger journalists than I took it much further. For trusting me.
For all of it.
Saturday was perfect. It was friends and family hugging and talking, laughing together, having a drink with you, celebrating not only your life, but all our lives and every day we have.
You are a cheeky fellow Dennis, and you have once again done things on your own terms.
I cannot help but smile as I write, knowing there is still much work to be done.
Know that there will be people who continue your fight, and if ever there is a way I can help them I promise you I will.
So, with that, I am outta here. This is not a memorial column, this is just a moment in time. One for you, one for me. I’ll catch you on the flip side.
S