“Emergency surgery. Please pray for me.”

Those were the last words heard on social media by Andrew Angstenburger.

I didn’t know Andrew well. He was a friend of a man I dated back in the early 2000s, but he was kind and welcoming while I was part of that “family” for 6 years. Dan, my partner at the time, and Andrew had been friends since their teens, and their history was woven around an intense bond built from comradeship, rebellion, tragedy and shared communion.

He was blindingly intelligent, sardonic and witty. He carried what I interpreted as a distrust for all things official, and had a bit of a rocky relationship with alcohol. But he was unfailingly polite and kind to me, which I appreciated greatly. And I am surprised how much his death has affected me.

My first impressions of Andrew are sketched deep and carry a particular flavor. A cold, rainy autumn weekend in Atlanta, the smell of city looming in the mist. Nervousness at meeting new people at a time when I was suffering from daily panic attacks, and the ease to which Andrew and his girlfriend, Mary, put me when I explained the dilemma. Andrew guiding me on a photo-taking tour of his mill-turned-apartment complex while he rattled off answers to my barrage of questions. Enjoying a delicious home-cooked meal and hearty conversation in the warmth of their modern studio unit, concluding with a bowl of ice cream which he had timed with his German-blooded precision to thawed, soft perfection.

Late into the night, we sat on a rooftop balcony high above a railroad yard, looking out at the Atlanta skyline gleaming in the fog. Another of their friends, Eric, joined, and I relaxed into the ribbing banter of old friends long familiar.

I enjoyed numerous other times in Andrew’s company, but that first evening stands out most as a testament to his character. When my relationship with my partner ended, Andrew and I continued a 10-year online connection through Facebook, mostly composed of congenial comments and likes on each other’s posts and the occasional private message. We shared similar politics and appreciation for culture and literature. I knew he had struggled a bit with his health over the years, and had been in the hospital for most of the past two weeks for surgery, but seemed to be doing better until that message popped up last Friday.

“Emergency surgery. Please pray for me.”

By Sunday, numerous friends had added words of encouragement and love to that post. I was a bit concerned by the silence on his end, but hoped it meant he was in recovery and just didn’t feel like facing The Facebook.

Sadly, late that night I learned from Dan and Mary that Andrew had died early Sunday morning from sepsis stemming from his medical troubles.

He was only 44.

It would be a shame to have those six troubled words be the ones that are etched forever in our collective memory. And as I was looking back through his photos online, I found a comment he had posted around five years ago when he was experiencing another patch of illness — clear, powerful words that seem much more fitting of a tribute and legacy.

“Remember that there are two kinds of people in life, the victims and the victors. It’s personal choice, and it’s that attitude choice that determines the outcome.

When I encounter situations like this I take it as an opportunity to build my personal strength and make it a permanent part of me. The more life challenges me, the stronger I become. I only have one life and so I must play the hand that my creator handed me, as we all do every day.

Time is a resource that is finite and we don’t know how much we have. It’s is the most important resource that we have, do not waste it.“

Thank you, Andrew. Those words have had a profound impact on me these last couple of days, and I hope to carry them with me as I move through the rest of my time here on earth. You did make a difference, to me and to those that loved you, and for that I am most profoundly grateful.

Peace be with you in the next life.

Andrew James Angstenberger (aka Victor Bonhoff) — February 18, 1972 to October 9, 2016