Remembering Camm

Early Thursday morning, I sat in Sky Harbor airport waiting for my flight. I had a layover in Seattle on my way to Portland. I thought it was appropriate, considering those were the two cities Camm and I visited on our trip together just over a year ago, prompting his Portland move. My phone was loaded with fifty episodes of Raise Your Spirits, and I was nearing the end of our very first when Camm said something interesting. He said he would probably have to die to make the show famous. I laughed a little bit and shook my head. Timing. I listened to five more episodes, and it was soothing. Not many people are lucky enough to have two hundred hours of their friendship documented.

We met when Camm commented on something I wrote on MySpace. That conversation lasted six years. It happened on Facebook, through text, on our podcast, in countless games of Wordfeud, in four different states and very often over drinks. It ended in the ICU in the Portland VA hospital on Friday afternoon. I promised many times over the years that when this happened, I would be there. I'm glad I kept that promise.

Camm and I were always realistic in our discussions about his health. We made jokes about it sometimes, but whenever it was serious, I hounded him to get to the doctor. I even threatened to tell his Mom once to get him to go in. He grumbled, "God dammit, Moyers," but it worked. We always said that if we got to be old men, we'd be like Eddie Murphy and Martin Lawrence in "Life." I hate that we don't get to do that.

I already miss our daily conversation. I don't know what to do now when I want to complain that Jo Koy is on Carolla again or when I have one of those boogers that goes to the back of my skull. I won't hear about crazy people on the Portland bus, or how bad Camm has to poop. These are the dumb things we cracked each other up with, and I wouldn't trade any of it.

I got to say many things to him in that hospital room. I shared messages from our friends. I promised that I would keep him alive in many ways. I told him that I love him. The one thing I refused to say was goodbye. I just won't. Goodbye is an end to something. Cameron Harston isn't going anywhere. When I was at the hospital, I saw him in his Mom, Rosemary, his aunt Glenda, his brother, Brandon, and his sister, Unique. I see him in every one of his friends and family. That's how impactful he is.

In one of my favorite moments on our show, Camm declared a day Fancy Nigga Day, and we turned it into an annual holiday. It was suggested that February 28th, the day of Camm's passing, should forever be Fancy Nigga Day. I agree. It will always be a day to get fancy and have a gin and ginger ale. It will be a time to carry on the love and happiness that he brought all of us. For me, it will be a bittersweet time of reflection, but for now I lift my glass and raise my spirits for my brother. I love you, Camm.