In Memoriam: Waldorf Van Buren

January 8th, 2010 by Oskar Kennedy

His name wasn’t Waldorf, obviously. It was Brett Fauver. And if you only knew him from his work here at Suburban Panic, then you only knew a very small facet of his life. Brett was a writer, an actor and a director, a graphic designer. He was also a husband, and father to three wonderful boys. And for the better part of a decade and a half, Brett was my friend.

I won’t try to sum up our entire friendship in this small space. We were sometimes rivals, sometimes collaborators. We shared an apartment at one point, and we disagreed as often as we saw eye to eye. He made me laugh as consistently as anyone ever has, and he challenged me in ways that I didn’t always realize until many years later.

Brett and I did share one conviction that I’m sure of, and that was the belief that this life, this existence, is the most important. Brett believed that the love of his wife and sons, the fellowship of his friends and the joy that he brought to people through his work in the theater, was far more precious and valuable than any possible reward he might receive after this life was over.

He had the type of cancer known as Hodgkins disease for about seven years. Through two bone marrow transplants, half a dozen remissions and recurrences, Brett never stopped fighting, and he never stopped planning for the work he wanted to do when he finally beat the disease, as he always expected to. He was always putting together his next big project, and even when his schemes were derailed by his illness, he never allowed anyone to believe that it was permanent. He was determined to make the most of the life he had, and I can say with some certainty that, while his life’s work was far shorter than it should have been, its effect in terms of the lives it touched was immeasurable.

It is a small thing, but an important one, I think, that we’re clear about how he died. It was not the cancer that killed him. Brett was undergoing chemotherapy, preparing his body for a planned third bone marrow transplant. When his immune system was at its nadir, beaten down by the treatment, he got an infection. It rapidly overwhelmed his weakened body, and ultimately took his life.

In the end, he was felled by an outside invader, and not the uncontrolled growth of his own cells. He was determined not to let cancer beat him, and he succeeded. While he died because of the cancer, and the treatments he needed in order to try to fight it, he didn’t die from the cancer. Again, it is a small distinction. But it would be, I think, an important one to him.

I often think of each life as a trajectory, like a comet falling through space. As we pass other objects, our paths are altered, sometimes subtly, sometimes radically. My path had occasion to cross Brett’s many times over the years, and I like to think that the changes he made to my orbit were almost all for the better. I will miss you, my friend, and I will always remember your passion, your energy and your determination. Thank you for everything. If there is a world waiting for us after this one, I’m sure you’re already changing the blocking.

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This entry was posted on Friday, January 8th, 2010 at 4:01 pm and is filed under Journal. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Responses are currently closed, but you can trackback from your own site.


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