Our Neighbor

[March 29th, 2006] Our next-door neighbor, Ross Jon Hamilton, is a really cool guy. So cool, in fact, that this paper made him a "Best of Portland" back in 2003. That's when we recognized the then-50-year-old former Jake's waiter for his work as an architectural healer and construction artist. At the time he was working on a special project: his own home. Over the past few years, my partner and I have watched him transform a North Portland house into a Zen paradise.

Now we are watching him die.

It's weird. I didn't think people died of AIDS anymore, least of all my neighbor. Now, we've always known Ross has had more than his share of health battles. But he's always bounced back, maybe a bit weaker, but strong enough to work in his yard or take his dogs out for daily walks.

Last weekend, all that changed. We noticed other people, people we've never seen before, walking Ross' dogs. We also noticed that Ross was nowhere to be seen.

He wasn't far. In fact, Ross was in his living room, which was now more of a hospital room. Juan and I found that out for ourselves when we went to visit him last week. His partner, Terry, was sitting by his side, as was Scott, his former partner, and Hank, an affectionate Westie terrier who seemed to know instinctively what was going on with his owner.

The moment I saw Ross, I was thrown back to another time and another living room where I saw another friend struggle through the last days of his life. It's strange, in these days of protease inhibitors and other drug cocktails, I never thought I'd ever witness something like this again. I guess I was naive, but I half expected to see Ross up and talking. I was planning to ask him all sorts of deep questions like "What are you going to do with the days you have left?" and "what have you learned?" But Ross, who could barely keep his eyes open, was too weak to answer any of my questions. All I could do was tell him that, although I may not have been the best neighbor (my dogs bark a lot), I was glad I could call him my friend. I'd met Ross way back in the early '80s, and I always respected this guy with the great grin and calming presence. He's just that special. And he's an incredible neighbor.

And that's when I got anxious. Who's going to take care of his dogs? And what about his house, and the yard? Those were the questions I really wanted to ask.

It was Terry who calmed me down.

"My relationship with Ross has been an amazing journey for me," says Terry, who assured me everything will be taken care of. "The thing I learned from him was to be grateful. Ross always says 'thank you' to everything, including the universe."

Now is the time to thank the universe for Ross. God speed, my friend.

POSTSCRIPT: Ross died at midnight on Sunday, surrounded by his friends, his family and his dogs.