I was drinking coffee the other morning with a friend. We were sitting side by side looking out the window talking about life. This guy is a few years older than me and we relate to each other well. “Trotter, “ he asked me, almost out of the blue, “what was it like to have your parents die so young?”

You’re talking about two chapters of my life, not one, I explained. I was a kid, and younger than my years, when my dad died. It was as if somebody pulled the rug out from under me. It was a punch that knocked the wind out of me. Dad was the decision-maker, the cornerstone of our family, the compass.

I worshipped him, I could always go to him, he could always figure everything out. I was accountable to him, he kept me on the straight and narrow — not such an easy thing in my younger days. And now he was gone.

At times, Dad was impatient and frustrated with me. Yet, in a subdued and almost hidden way I could tell he was proud of me. And I busted my butt to make him proud.

I’ll be honest with you. I was a terrible student through most of school because — I think looking back — I have Attention Deficit Hyper Disorder, though people didn’t know much about it back then. I was smart but teachers would tell my parents “Trotter is lazy, he doesn’t care.” I was distracted and had a tough time focusing; I was a class clown, I was hyper. I made bad grades which really frustrated dad. I couldn’t get into the University of Alabama because my grades were so poor — and we lived in Tuscaloosa, mind you, where dad was a pretty successful and well-known businessman and civic leader.

However, not getting into Alabama led to my turnaround moment. I was upset at the thought of my folks sending me off to a junior college; I was embarrassed and resolved to turn things around. I took some summer courses, worked my butt off, got straight A’s, took it upon myself to re-approach the University of Alabama — which was a ten minute walk from my house — and now I say this with pride: Because of my hard work, better grades and willingness to approach the admissions committee to plead my case, Alabama admitted me.

When dad found this out he was as proud as he could be! “I can’t believe you did that without my knowledge,” he said with amazement and admiration, and the Dean of Admissions, a friend of his, even told him how remarkable all that was.

I wanted to better myself; I wanted to please him. But then the darkness set in. Dad was diagnosed with cancer the second semester of my freshman year and a darkness began to envelop me and my family. Dad’s cancer was brutal, he would not live long, and in 1972 at age 51 he died. I was 19.

I’m now 65 and over the past 15 years, I’ve come to realize how young he was when he died; how much life there was left for him to live and the things — children coming of age, grandchildren, retirement — that he never got to see and enjoy.

Then there’s Mom.

My mom was a great mother. Loving, fun and supportive; she always made my sister, two brothers and me feel good. If we were sad, we could tell her and she would put things in perspective in a way that would give us strength. I was proud of her, my friends liked her, she was a classic 1950s/1960s mom — the kind portrayed on TV. Always there, always loving, and, it seemed to me, always perfect. But that began to change after dad died.

She was devastated, she had worshipped him since she was 13, and never got over his death. She was the same on the exterior but there was a sadness inside of her that you could sense. And then she developed colon cancer. The doctors discovered it too late; she wouldn’t listen to my siblings and me when we had urged her to go for an examination, and by the time she sought medical care it was too late. She died in 1984. She was 59. I was 31.

My friend took a deep breath, swigged his coffee and opened up a little bit about himself. I could tell the conversation had touched him. It turns out that his mom had died of leukemia — in 1972, the same year as my dad. She was 49 and my friend was 22. Then his dad died in 1991. My friend was 42. We realized that though we didn’t know each other growing up, and have only become good friends these past few years, that our lives — and experiences — are so similar.

I’m 65 and my friend is 69 and our birthdays are two days apart. We talk for hours about life, and have similar values and personalities. We worry about and enjoy similar things — especially Alabama football. And, as both of us came to realize on this coffee morning, we are bonded even more deeply by the experience of having parents die young.

He told me his mom was diagnosed at 44 with leukemia and lived five years, exactly as the doctor predicted. And he felt the same devastating punch that I did. We talked about the emotional fog that rolls in when you’re 19 or 22 and standing next to the bed watching the strength-giver in your life wither, shrivel, gasp for air desperately — and then die. It’s a fog that stays. And stays.

We both were quiet for a minute or two and then my friend asked me something that really got me thinking. “Trotter, even though you’ve now lived longer than both your parents, did you worry over the years that you wouldn’t?”

Yes, I said. At times, I really didn’t think I was going to make it past the ages at which my folks had died. My friend told me a story. As he approached 44, the age at which his mom was diagnosed, he began experiencing paralyzing anxiety attacks: sweating, irrational fears and an inability to concentrate.

He didn’t know what was happening but a psychologist he was referred to figured it out immediately — he was afraid that he was going to get sick and die. Medication stabilized him and therapy helped him work through it.

“How often do you think about your parents?” he asked. Not as much as I used too, I admitted. He said the same thing. Maybe it’s because they died so long ago or maybe it’s because our minds are cluttered with distractions these days as we enter the third act of our lives.

“Excuse me, I’m going to warm up my coffee,” my friend said quietly as he got up and headed into the other room.

“Hey Trotter, how do you think Bama’s going to do Saturday night?” he asked me as he sat back down. “Man,” I said, “that’s some quarterback we have.” We sat there for a few more minutes talking about Alabama — the great teams and players we’ve seen over the past 50 years. We were just two old guys talking football, one 65 and one 69. Two lucky guys.