Saying goodbye to John Sullivan

A few months ago I heard from my old friend, John Sullivan, the bounding, brilliant, gentle giant in tie-dye many of you will remember from Dover-Sherborn High School. We'd been in touch off and on throughout the years. I knew he'd married and had kids, lived in Austin, and worked in some kind of tech that required a lot of international travel. The news I received last Fall was startling to say the least: John was recovering from his second cancer treatment, had been diagnosed with stage 3 lymphedema, used a walker, and was divorced and estranged from his family.

Also, he was homeless.

WTF?!

Many emails later, I cobbled together that over the past almost-decade, John had experienced a series of destabilizing events: a difficult divorce, a business venture failing, and three debilitating health crises.

I met with John a few weeks ago, on a pre-planned trip to Austin. He suggested we meet at Chuy's, near where he parks the car he'd been living in. I'll admit, I was nervous to see him. And it took a minute to reconcile the bald, grey-bearded man sitting in the booth with the John of my memory.

But despite the walker, the swollen limbs, the labored breathing (he'd had two strokes since we last communicated in November), and the clear toll of his situation, he was still ... John. Still kind. Still gentle. Still willing to share stories of his adventures, including beloved work with animal conservation efforts in Africa—tales memorialized through a stunning sleeve of tattoos.

Prior to my trip, I'd email-introduced John to a friend in Austin who I thought might be able to help him find contract work in his former field. When I saw him, I discovered he'd sold his computer, along with most of his other possessions. I also quickly realized that, despite his years of experience and considerable skill set, John was in no condition to "look for" work. He was just barely holding on.

I've often held the illusion most of us have: That when we've got the basics of life down—if we’re physically able, mentally sound, are employable and have friends and family—that we're "safe." That we will never seriously lose our footing, and if we do, we have the wherewithal and support to get back up and on the path.

Yet I've had another friend slip into homelessness. I've also watched a life be upended by divorce, bankruptcy, and illness. And I've been unable to save someone in despair who felt that not living anymore was better than living in so much emotional pain.

I still don't entirely understand how all this happened. How John could end up like this. But what I realized after seeing him is that I don't need to understand it all. My old, dear friend is in a very bad way.

John is quite clear-eyed about his situation. He now has an insider's view to public health programs and other efforts to support people in need—including their well-meaning but bureaucratic inefficiencies. He also told me that he feels dangerously close to the edge of an abyss with no discernable bottom, and that he's just one more crisis away from falling.

And he's scared.

I don't know what lay in John's future. I'm not sure how he's going to get back to baseline let alone to where he'd like to be—continuing conservation work, doing a TEDX talk, or his raison d'etre: thinking up new tech strategies to help humanity and the planet, including all its creatures.

All I know is that I can't NOT try to help.

I reached out to John yesterday, to see how he fared through the cold spell that swept through the Plains and Texas last week. He told me his car had finally died. A kindly older couple had paid for him to stay in a Motel 6 for a week. He didn't know what he'd do after that.

John is eligible for disability in Texas, and he's been told it will come through in about 6 weeks. That's promising! But it's also 6 weeks away.

SXSW is coming up in a month, and the motel and rental rates in Austin go sky-high. My goal is to try and raise money for John to have a place to stay until that disability kicks in. To have his car fixed (if possible), to help pay for his medication, to make sure he's safe.

I'm also going to stay in touch with my old friend. To try and see him through this time, and hopefully, to witness him come out the other side, on his feet, in a place where he can heal and start to rebuild.

If you know others who might want to help, please share John’s story. Thank you!