An old friend of mine died on Saturday. He wasn’t one of my best friends, and I actually hadn’t seen him but a few times in the last decade. But in my semi-foolish youth we spent a lot of time together and I’ve always had a soft spot for him. Funny, unassuming, sweet, and always up for whatever was next, Supe (as we called him) managed to gain – and keep – more friends in his lifetime than most of us could imagine.

Unlike most, if not all, of his circle, Supe didn’t go to college. I never really understood why – he was certainly smart enough. Maybe it was money. Maybe that path simply didn’t appeal to him. As a result, although he always worked, he tended to have temporary jobs or jobs in the service industry. You know, the kind of jobs where you work your butt off all day, but make almost nothing and certainly don’t qualify for any extra “benefits.” Benefits like health insurance.

So when Supe noticed a weird little growth on his leg, he didn’t go to the doctor. He watched it grow, and he worried, but still he didn’t go. Actually, he didn’t go in until he realized that he couldn’t type anymore. By then, of course, the melanoma had spread through his body and into his brain. The doctors gave him six months, with treatment, which is almost exactly what he got.

In hindsight, we can all think, “How could you not go to the doctor?!” But maybe you’ve forgotten what it is like to live where, after expenses, you have almost no extra money. And you know that one trip to the ER or a doctor is going to cost hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars. Here in my house, we have health insurance and enough money for everything we need. But sometimes I still hesitate to take my kids to the ER, thinking simply of the co-pays I don’t want to spend unless I’m sure it’s necessary. “Let’s give him some Motrin and see if the fever comes down…”

Plus there is always fear to deal with. Fear of finding out there really is something wrong with you. Fear of what treatment will be like. In this case, fear of bankrupting yourself and your parents.

So Super Dave is gone, dead the day after his 39th birthday. If he had health insurance, maybe he still would have delayed that visit to the doctor. Or maybe he still wouldn’t have survived treatment. But at least he would have had a chance. Instead he just had to hope that it was nothing, hope he would be lucky. And he wasn’t. Like almost 45,000 other Americans this year, most of whom worked hard every day just like Supe, he is gone because he didn’t have health insurance.

Rest in peace, Super Dave.