Last year, Patrick “friended” me on Facebook. He wasn’t alone. As we approach our 50th grade-school reunion, a number have reconnected. The years have thinned our hair, perhaps thickened our waistlines, but they’ve also softened some edges. A birthday greeting here. A memory there. Digital touchpoints stand in for playground conversations long gone.
Because I had recently wished Patrick a happy birthday, Liz reached out. She asked if I would call, text, or write something she could share with him — something she could include as she prepared his obituary.
And if I’m honest, my first reaction wasn’t purely sentimental. It was a suspicion.
Was this real? Was I being “fished”? Was this some elaborate identity theft scheme? She asked which grade school and high school we attended. My mind raced faster than my heart. Is this human nature? Is heightened awareness something we experience as we age? Is it simply the times we live in? I was grateful for my VPN — imagine that being part of a spiritual reflection — but those thoughts distracted me from what should have been the focus: a man nearing the end of his earthly life.
An old friend preparing for Heaven. Instead of sitting with memory and gratitude, I was toggling between compassion and caution.
Then I reached out to our grade-school Facebook group. I expected at least a ripple of response. After all, we are nearing 50 years since we lined up in alphabetical order and passed notes during math class. Surely the news of one of our own entering hospice would stir something.
Crickets.
Except for two friends, John and Diane, whom I had connected with last fall, silence. I even followed up, asking how many from the Class of 1976 have already passed away. Again, nothing.
Yet I see members of that group posting daily about dinner plans, politics, grandchildren, and the Chiefs not being in the Super Bowl this year. Life moves on. Algorithms hum. Engagement thrives — just not here. And so the questions started multiplying.
Was Patrick not loved? Hard to believe. He was steady. Smart. Never angry. A good teammate on the football field and in life. The kind of guy you wanted in your corner.
Do we get too busy to pause for someone else’s goodbye? Or do we avoid these conversations because they force us to confront our own mortality? Hospice has a way of holding up a mirror. It asks, without apology: What matters? Who matters? What lasts?
I give Liz tremendous credit. At a young age, she is making sure her stepfather has a proper send-off after 64 years on this earth. That takes courage. It takes love. It takes intention.
And her devotion made me wonder something I didn’t expect. My wife and children do not have a social media footprint. I have spent 41 years teaching and leading. I have taught thousands of students. Worked alongside hundreds of educators. Shaken countless hands at graduations. Written letters of recommendation. Offered prayers. Delivered discipline. Tried to model the Gospel.
But when my time comes… who will advocate for me? Will there be someone making the calls? Writing the post? Gathering the stories? Will my life have mattered beyond the walls I walked each day?
Did I make a lasting impact? These are not questions of ego. They are questions of meaning.
And perhaps that’s the lesson hidden beneath the “crickets.” Impact is rarely measured in comment sections. Legacy is not proven by likes.
The seeds we plant in classrooms, on football fields, in quiet office conversations — those seeds may bloom decades later in ways we will never see. Some former student may one day tell their child, “I had a principal who believed in me.” Some colleagues may say, “He steadied the room when things were hard.” We may never hear it. But that does not mean it isn’t true.
Hospice reminds us that life is not about the noise around us but the love within us.
Patrick mattered — not because of how many people commented on a Facebook post, but because a daughter cared enough to make sure he was remembered well.
Maybe the better question isn’t, “Who will advocate for me?” Maybe it’s, “Who am I advocating for now?” Who can I reach out to while they can still hear my voice? Who can I affirm before someone else writes their obituary?
The silence from classmates may say less about Patrick and more about how uncomfortable we are with endings. But Liz’s courage says something louder: love shows up.
In the end, perhaps a proper send-off isn’t about social media presence or attendance at reunions. Perhaps it is about whether someone can say, with sincerity:
He was steady.
He was kind.
He showed up.
If that is said of us, it is enough.
FOOTNOTE: Patrick D'Arcy passed away on February 8, surrounded by people who loved him at the young age of 64!
Husband to Alisa D'Arcy; brother of Bryan.
He devoted his career to defending the defenseless and the outcast. A true friend for life, those fortunate to know him saw a genuine man for others.
Thursday, February 19 Wake at Skradski Funeral Home, 340 N. 6th St., Kansas City, KS 66101 Rosary at 4:30 p.m. | Visitation 5:00–7:00 p.m.
Friday, February 20 Funeral Mass at 9:30 a.m. at Christ the King (85th & Wornall) Luncheon to follow | Burial at 1:30 p.m.
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