Adrian Garcia

Sorry I haven't posted in a while, I'd meant to, but my friend Adrian Garcia passed away on Monday, June 9.

Adrian was diagnosed in 2005 with terminal colon cancer. He was given only a short time to live, as in weeks. After consulting with a second surgeon, it was determined that the surgeon would be able to clear the tumor out without Adrian having to be on a colostomy bag the rest of his life. So he went ahead and had the surgery. The surgeon successfully removed the tumor, and reattached his colon.

A CAT scan turned up some awful news, the cancer had not been eradicated, but had, instead, set up shop in Adrian's liver. Three tumors, all malignant, were found there. Thus began Adrian's fight...

Adrian was a world-class bassist, playing for KC and the Sunshine Band, Sheena Easton, Debbie Gibson, Martin Nievara, and a host of shows in Las Vegas. Truly a magnificent player. He was a frequent contributor on TalkBass.com, where I "met" him, and was a fountain of knowledge. He never talked down to people, was never condescending, and was always positive. News of his passing, even though it was expected, sent shockwaves through the TalkBass community. He was one of the greats, and everybody knew it. What really struck me, in his "R.I.P Adrian Garcia" thread, was that most people talked about how he had touched their lives, about what a great person he was, not his playing. That alone speaks volumes about the man.

Early on in his cancer battle, Adrian posted something that was out of character for him. I saw that post, and immediately went to Amazon and bought him a book. When I was checking out, I realized I needed his address, so I called him up. I told him to watch his mailbox. About three days later, the book arrived, and he called me after he had read it to thank me. The book was entitled "You Can't Afford The Luxury Of A Negative Thought", and it was written specifically for patients facing terminal illness. He thanked me repeatedly, commenting on how thoughtful it was that someone that had never met him in person would do something so beautiful for him. He later told me that he had carried it everywhere over the two years of his fight, to every doctor visit, every chemo treatment, every lab test. The other book he took with him to every visit was his Bible.

When you talked to Adrian, you were immediately made to feel that you were his best friend. He was warm, engaging, intelligent, and full of joy and love. You could tell that from the first word. Something else that was amazing was his acceptance of his situation. He wasn't angry, wasn't sad, just determined to try with all his might to beat this damned disease. He was always very cognizant of his disease, but didn't let it get him down. "It's not up to me", he'd say, "It's all God's will. We don't get to know His plan. It's all in His hands."

His unwavering faith, and his positive outlook despite his grim prognosis doubtless aided him in exceeding the doctors' "weeks", trading the weeks for years. He worked right up until the last month, when his bass hurt his liver to hold and play. Playing bass was him expressing his soul, it was one of the things he was sent here to do. And he was great at it.

He called me at the end of April. I was just getting the last of my gear off the stage in Kemah, when his name came across my cell phone. I knew he'd be in bad shape, but I wasn't ready for the pained, weakened voice that came across...

"Hey man, I'm sorry if I'm bothering you..." Hm. AS IF!! "I was going through my phone and clearing out all my messages, and I though I'd make a few calls to people I owed a call to..." His voice was strained, much of the joy had left. He was weak. "I know you bought my cabinet from me like month ago, and I'm sorry I haven't sent it yet. I'll have a friend take it to the UPS place and get it to you."

"Adrian, you don't have to do that. Are you OK? You don't sound good at all..."

"I'm actually in the hospital...the pain meds are kicking in, so I apologize in advance if I lose focus..."

I flashed back to the last phone call I ever got from my mom. It was the same voice. Tears were streaming down my face, and I didn't care who saw it. This was my friend, calling me for the last time, from his hospice bed. And we both knew it.

"I finally had to give up my gig last week. I couldn't do it anymore, it hurt my liver too much. The pain meds messed me up, too. Just not good for sight-reading." Giving up his gig was like giving up his identity.

"Adrian, I wish there was a way for me to take some of this burden from you, to give you back your gig, is there anything I can do?"

"There you go again, always trying to make things better. You're so generous, and so full of love..."

"Dude, how am I supposed to be? Cold and calloused? You're the one who's full of love! Are you hurting bad?"

"Oh, I have good times and bad times, some days are better than others, some hours are better than others, but I can't complain. It's this disease, it's just doing it's thing, you know? And I know that soon enough, I won't have to do this any more. I'm tired of this fight. I take two steps forward, one step back. But at least I've made progress. I've fought it as hard as I can, now it's time to go home and see the Lord..."

By this point, I was in agony. This was a farewell call. I feel honored and blessed that Adrian would take the time to call ME, of all people, and tell me goodbye. I didn't want to say goodbye yet. I wasn't ready.

"Adrian, is it OK to call you next week?"

"I don't know what kind of shape I'll be in, but if you want to try, please do. If you don't get through...I'll try to answer, but I might not be able to. Don't worry about me, I'll be OK. I'll be going home soon. You keep the faith, and don't stop loving people. You're a good man, and a good friend. Oh, and thank you once again for that book- it really helped."

"You're welcome. I think about you a lot of the time when I play, you've helped me as well, even if you don't realize it."

"Keep the groove, man. I'll get that cab to you soon, I will."

"I already told you don't worry about it. I have my Schroeder cabs, so I'm not hurting for another one."

"I guess I gotta go...the pain meds are kicking in...I love you, man. Take care, and God bless you."

"God bless you, too, my friend, and I love you too."

And with that, I sat down in the middle of the parking garage and sobbed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On Monday, June 9th, while I was busy having a bad day at work, I saw a text message. Two words...

"He's gone"

And my day got really bad. Nothing really meant anything after that. All my problems seemed to just vanish into the chasm that was the hole in my heart. I was stunned, even though I had been expecting it...it still felt like someone had kicked me really hard in the 'nads. Had a hard time driving home that day- I've never driven through an aquarium before.

The bass cab that Adrian had sold me was donated to the auction that Carey Nordstrand is setting up, to auction off Adrian's other bass, "Charity", and all proceeds will go to St. Jude's Cancer Research Center, in accordance with Adrian's wishes.

Rest in peace, brother Adrian, your fight is over. Hurt no more, my friend, and be with the Lord in Heaven...