Clay - a narrative

I was in Europe when I got the call. A friend of mine who played for the Broncos. He knew I had medic training from my diving and asked if I could help someone named Clay. My friend was pretty tied up with work at the time—Tim Tebow’s reign, and he needed assistance.

Clay was battling a terminal illness. He couldn’t walk.

At the time, I was living a life that, from the outside looking in, was everything that any man would strive for. The A-list friend list. The models. The fashion life. It was intoxicating. But from time to time, I’d get nudged with a thought that I wasn’t exactly where I was supposed to be. There was no lightning flash in the sky that led to a sudden reckoning, but when I agreed to assist Clay, the nudges I’d been feeling came with a little more force.

When I met him, he had already started disappearing from his own life.

The room reflected where he was. It was dark and neglected. A dirty bong sitting on a coffee table that hadn’t been touched by a dust rag, old weed, cigarette burns in a carpet worn flat beneath a layer of dirt and the stale smell of a place that had been left untouched for too long.

His fingernails were long, with dirt caked underneath them. His hair, matted and tangled, a musty, sour odor from years of neglect. He had stopped doing the basic things that most of us do without thinking.

It was hard for me to understand.

I'd spent years chasing a very different life. Models. Fashion. MMA fighters. Rooms filled with people who looked like they had it all together. Everything polished. Everything intentional. 

Clay needed a shower, like he’d never had one before. I had never bathed another person, let alone a man just ten years younger than me.

I brought him a pair of swim trunks.

He looked at them and scoffed. He asked if I was planning on going swimming.

"You're going to wear these in the shower unless you want our dicks to touch."

He looked at me, realized I was serious, and put them on.

As I bathed him, I pressed my hand against his chest to steady his balance and his weight, and he began to cry. Concerned that he was in pain, I asked if he was okay. Clay hadn't bathed in four years because he was so afraid that he was going to fall. 

The moment was pivotal. 

Clay wasn't ready to give up and I wasn't going to let him. Time went on and I committed to Clay’s well being. Small things with big rewards. I replaced Clay's dirt weed with quality on one condition: he had to respect himself. 

Time went on and Clay began to return back into himself. He brought a dry sense of humor that added levity to a world that hadn't seen laughter in years. My relationship with him brought a fulfillment that vastly differed from any kind of wealth portfolio I’d grown.

What I found in those years with Clay was something I never found walking runways or sitting front row outside the octagon. It was a different kind of wealth. This was a different kind of connection. One that would shape future decisions, shift my priorities, and lead me to a place where life exists on humble ground.

I remained steady helping Clay for ten years until he passed. His memory, forever etched in a framework that brought me to San Pedro.