Losing a loved one is always hard. What I’ve learned from loss, so far, is that everybody grieves differently; that each one is hard in its own right; that the best of our family and friends can live on in our minds even as the last time we saw them stretches backwards in time. All of that said, losing Mark hurt, and I found myself grieving him even before he’d really gone.
Mark Mercer was a pillar in the lives of many. That’s the most remarkable thing about him - he was a friend, ally, confidant; matchmaker, executive, and savvy businessperson; he was a runner, a lover of great beer, and a phenomenal cyclist. Despite all of his hobbies, he managed to be “the person” to a great deal of people. I don’t know how many dozens of couples he put together, or how many hundreds of lives he mentored at work. What was clear was this — he was always there for you when you needed him.
When I first met him in 2010, he was a stocky salt-n-pepper man who was always popping down to our floor to fix peoples’ phones. I didn’t know what Mark did; I thought he was the phone guy. I also didn’t know that in a few months he’d narrowly miss dying from a heart attack while in his 40s. I only learned that later on; by then, we’d already become running partners and friends. We would run together and chat about life. The stocky man I’d first met morphed into a strong runner. I always thought that Mark lived like he was giving his thanks for having dodged the fatality of that heart attack.
One time, on a run, I started to talk about a problem I was facing at work with a different team. He stunned me by saying: “I manage them! I can help!” Turns out he was the co-executive of the entire division I needed help from. He went out of his way to advocate for me, and helped me achieve something that otherwise would have been impossible. Not long after, he was moved departments. I’ve often wondered if that was a result of his support for me. If it was, Mark never told. He was like that — endlessly generous.
He was also the consummate practical joker. Whenever he saw people wearing matching shirts in the office, he would swap them in the locker room. He taped the underside of people’s computer mice. Before the company upgraded their phone system, he would pop onto calls without warning — when the prospective customer on the other end of the line stepped away, Mark would scare the living daylights out of his unsuspecting colleagues with a well-timed comment or fart noise.
In 2015, Mark started a routine called “7 at 7” — a group of people would gather at the office at 7 in the morning to get a 7 mile run in before work. There were always a handful of people there with Mark to do this for nearly every summer week; at times, there were dozens. The next year, I met Sheila on one of those runs - Mark introduced the two of us. I still remember the feeling I had when I first saw her — and it scared me! It took me years to follow up on that feeling.
The first time I borrowed his car, he asked me if I’d floored it when I returned the keys. I gaped at him, honestly agog. The second time, I did floor it — for Mark. He would routinely lend the car out without a second thought. One time he lent it to Sheila and me so that we could support him in a race he was running in the Adirondacks. Sheila’s mom had a stroke the night we were to leave for New York — and Mark wouldn’t be allowed to run the race without a support team. All he cared about was making sure Sheila’s mom was OK, and that we could get to her. Another friend, the great Mike Monteiro, drove the 5 hours instead of us; we kept his car for the weekend.
When I was planning to propose to Sheila, we already lived together, and I needed to buy the ring well in advance of the Europe trip I hoped to propose to her on. There was only one person I knew that I could trust I could send the ring to - Mark. He took delivery of it and gleefully demanded I pop open the box while in the restaurant in our office’s ground floor — while dozens of Sheila’s past colleagues and current friends walked by.
Shortly after we moved to Colorado, Sheila’s dad had a heart attack and we had to fly back barely a week after we’d left. Mark drove up to New Hampshire to talk to her dad; as the young survivor of a heart attack himself, he knew how important it was to impart the lessons he’d learned going through his own recovery to Mr. Murray. He was complaining of stomach pains as he left. Two weeks after that, he called us up with the news about his cancer. From that moment on, heavy were the ticking hands of the clock.
There were so many incredible facets to Mark’s life, and the life he shared with others. Maybe it’s shocking that I don’t even get into something so many of us shared with Mark - Uncle Filthy’s Hunting Club, the group he organized to run the Reach the Beach relay race in New Hampshire for many years. Or how about the fitness classes that Mark taught at the company gym after work? The hundreds of miles we covered by bike, touring scenic small-town New England one century ride at a time? Forget about all his crazy stories about buying a van with swivel seats and parking it for years on the streets of Back Bay! Friends of Mark would probably agree — in talking about him, the enormous life he lived becomes impossibly large to tell. One story begets another, and Mark lives on in those tales. From one friend to another — share in this digital toast (or raise your preferred drink, especially a Guinness, which Mark loved) with me as we remember Mark.
