I recently lost the best friend of my life and it was an ending I never thought I'd have to face. Allan Jude Macdonald was 51 years old. I'm 62 years old. I just assumed that he'd outlive me.

At the age of 10, Allan was run over by a train while playing on the tracks. No fences lined the railway and… well, kids will be kids. He lost his right arm and right leg. The detached organs were incinerated in the hospital furnace while Allan lay there watching.

That's quite a tough lesson to learn when you are only 10 years old. It made him a lion, though, one of the bravest men I've ever met.

Allan survived for another 41 years. How he did it, I have no idea, aside from the fact that he had the courage of a lion — and some of the style of dancer Fred Astaire.

His voice and words were those of a quintessential male chauvinist — he was actually more American than Canadian — but, by God, he was brave. He was afraid of nothing. Not violence, nor death, nor insults, nor life. He leapt into existence like Tarzan leaping into the jungle.

However, when Allan rode his wheelchair, he was like Fred Astaire!

I'm losing the memory of the features of his face, but I can never forget the style of his wheels. He'd enter a room in his "golfcart" — that's the nickname I gave him — like the best dancer in the world. It was poetry in motion, the way he drove that wheelchair, not only into restaurants but also on the streets of Halifax.

Allan had only three true loves in his life: his first wife Pam, who died young of cancer; his second wife Deborah, who died of a stroke in October; and music, which befriended us and was the first true love for both of us... and, by gum, he knew his music. Allan sang well when he knew the lyrics. When he didn't, things got a little hazy. I finally told him that only three weeks ago. Allan was dealing with the loss of Deborah, rather like Romeo tried to deal with the death of Juliet, and, like Romeo, he just gave up. The only thing that kept him going at all was singing away his grief and playing his harmonica.

Seeing Golfcart dance his wheels around town with Deborah on his lap is one of my fondest memories of Halifax. I haven't been back there in over five years and I'll probably never return. Too many sad memories.

I now live in Maple Ridge, B.C. Golfcart and I would talk to each other, long distance, for two hours straight. Perhaps, if I'd flown to Halifax, he might not have "clocked it," as they say.

Golfcart died of a broken heart. I don't think anything I could have done would have replaced his 15-year love affair and common-law marriage to Deborah. His friends, including Larry, who lives in Nova Scotia, did their best to pull him out of his swamp of grief. Larry and I hadn't heard from Allan in over 48 hours, so Larry called the police. They found Golfcart dead on his sofa. Not a sign of violence but with his appetite for beer, marijuana, T-threes and who knows what else.... hopefully, they'll do an autopsy and tell two of his friends what he died of.

I'll miss Allan till the day I die. He was a lion in a golfcart. Fred Astaire on wheels.