Ten Minutes

What is the value of ten minutes? How much impact could ten measly minutes have on your life? That depends on whether you ask a boxer in the middle of a world title fight, a person proposing to their intended future spouse, or a bored schoolkid staring out of the window on a warm spring day. It’ll probably take you ten minutes or so to read this post, so let’s put that question to the test.

A few months ago, I got a text message from a very dear friend of mine. His name is Gib Bickel, and for thirty years he has been the face and soul of one of the best comic book stores in the world: the Laughing Ogre in Columbus, Ohio. The message was fairly concerning, so I called my old pal and we chatted for about ten minutes. Gib told me he had been diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer. He was terminally ill, and the doctors had informed him he would now have between three and nine months to live. There was nothing that could be done.

Ten minutes later, I put the phone down and tried to work through the shock.

To give you some context: Back in the mid-nineties, I was selected from an entire field of established pros to become the new writer of Hellblazer. I was a complete unknown - understandable, considering I had never written anything before. I didn’t even know how to type. But somehow - amazingly - my editor, Lou Stathis, and Vertigo’s Editor-in-Chief, Karen Berger, had decided to hand me the gig. I was now a professional writer, and this would be either a long career or a very short stint.

Very soon, my first few issues appeared on the stands. I was nervous, wondering if my work would have any impact at all when stacked up against all these other pros who knew way more than I did. One day, I was contacted by a guy named Gib - funny name, I thought - from a new store called the Laughing Ogre in Columbus, Ohio. Gib invited me to attend the Mid-Ohio con as a guest of the Ogre. And from the first time I met that amazing crew, I knew I had friends for life. Over the next few years, they would always bring me to Mid-Ohio. They promoted me when no one else took that same interest, along with a local Ohio lad - an indie self-publisher named Brian Bendis who was trying to get his books Jinx and Torso off the ground. The guys at the Ogre got behind Brian and I like no one else. Years later, they would attend my wedding. I attended a couple of theirs as well.

Those early days were magic: Gib and his two friends and partners, Roddy and Daryn, had created something that was just different from most of the stores I saw at the time. For one thing, each time a customer entered the store they would be see Gib, standing behind the counter. He’d always greet a new arrival but somehow he had this… presence: he’d never be intrusive in any way, he’d just let you know he would be there if you needed him, or he’d simply take your money if that’s what you preferred. He’d let interested readers take a copy of an issue #1 for free, and if they liked the series he would let them pay for it when they came back to buy issue #2. Most important of all, the Ogre prided itself on giving prominent shelf space to local indie publishers, whose book they sold in spades. Gib once told me that the Ogre made at least as much money from indie publishing as they did from Marvel and DC sales. That’s because Gib knew each of his customers personally. He knew what books to recommend. He also understood that the Ogre wasn’t a comic store - it was the epicenter of an entire community. He was a local icon, loved by every single customer and many others besides.

Two years into my run on Hellblazer I received a phone call from a friend at Vertigo. My editor, Lou Stathis, had been diagnosed with brain cancer. This was the man who had given me my start. A man to whom - along with Karen Berger and Kevin Eastman - I pretty much owed my career. Lou’s cancer moved rapidly. I asked his then-girlfriend, Shelly Roeberg (now Shelly Bond) if I could come down to New York and visit him. I jumped on a train and five or six hours later, I was at Lou and Shelly’s apartment.

But Lou wasn’t doing so great. Shelly told me he was having trouble speaking. He could understand everything that was being said to him but he couldn’t form words to respond. When he appeared in his nightgown, this larger-than-life guy - the man I loved so much - was already very frail. I got just ten minutes with him before he grew tired and had to go back to bed. I got back on the train the next day, and that was the last time I ever saw my friend. How valuable was that ten minutes? I wouldn’t swap that memory for the world.

Now, here we are, many years later. I’m working at Marvel again, and the reviews for both Sentry and Captain Marvel are incredible. I have a new project with them, and I am often working with old friends there. Things are going well, and it’s almost as if we are back, full-circle. Yeah… a funny thing about that.

Two days ago, I got a text from Roddy: He told me things were not looking good. That “three to nine months” thing was much more like three than nine.

I didn’t hesitate. Yesterday morning, I got in the car and drove the nine hours up to Columbus, Ohio. I stayed with Roddy and his lovely wife, Lisa, and we reminisced about the amazing days of the early Laughing Ogre. Roddy has been there for his lifelong friend the whole time, texting people, helping out, visiting… all the things you do when someone you love is living through the last moments of their life.

This morning, Rod and I went to see our friend, Gib, in his hospital room before he would be moved to hospice care at his home. We are at the end, and Gib deserves to have his last moments on his terms. For my part, I had a plan: I was only going to see him for ten minutes. That’s because I know Gib is having to deal with awful pain, and the disorienting pain medicine that goes with it. He’s such a generous guy that he would want to make sure my nine-hour drive was worth it. He’d be willing to endure a longer visit. But it’s not my time. It is Gib’s time, and these precious last moments belong to his family.

When I walked in, he was surprised and very moved that I’d taken the time to drive up. I told him it was just a backache, and that of course I would come up to see him. Gib was very gaunt - our faces and bodies have a certain look when we are close to the end. I told him I’d been impressed when he first got cancer, but now he was just showing off. We laughed, and we held hands. I told my friend what he means to me, and how much I loved him. I gave him a little kiss on the forehead from Melinda, my wife. I apologized for crying a little bit. It’s not that I’ll never see him again, it’s that I already miss him. We reminisced, and we talked about how consciousness is a material, measurable thing; that this is not the end. Gib reassured me he is okay. He has had a good life surrounded by many people who love him. He told me he’s at peace with this moment.

I explained why I would only visit with him for ten minutes, and he understood. He thanked me for being considerate, and that made me cry again because I know he is in so much pain. He told me something very, very important. I told him I loved him again, and that my ten minutes was up.

And then, I walked out, as I promised I would.

Ten minutes. Eighteen hours of driving. 1100 miles. I wouldn’t swap it for the world. I will carry the last ten minutes with Lou and with Gib for the rest of my life, and those memories will be worth it. So, what was that very, very important thing Gib shared with me?

Get screened. Take ten minutes of your life and set up an appointment, if you are of a certain age and a certain vulnerability. Because this didn’t need to happen. If Gib had gotten tested, he told me, he would be perfectly fine today. We have a billion possible pathways through life and only one exit. Life is so precious. So tonight - exhausted from two days of driving and with my eyes still stinging - I’m fulfilling the last promise I made to my friend this morning as I left his hospital room. He told me it was okay to share this with you.

Ten minutes. Please consider making that call for Gib, my friend and yours.