Follow-ups to two of the three parts of my 10/14 posting “… that I am precious to them”.
[1] in the advance health care section [of my draft legal documents] was a Treat with Dignity section that begins:
If I should suffer serious disease, injury, or illness, I desire that those who love and care for me touch me and tell me so, demonstrating that I am precious to them.
And then I burst into tears at the delicate intimacy of the wording, even though it’s probably boilerplate text these days.
[2 about the Stanford Linguistics department’s 50th anniversary celebration]
[3] .. Sally Thomason just reported:
Steve (Stephen R.) Anderson [of Yale University] died last night, October 13, after a diagnosis last month of aggressive stage 4 esophageal cancer
Damn! And I owed him e-mail [in response to his of 8/5]. An old friend from the 1960s (he was just 3 years younger than me), a true scholar, an extraordinary general linguist, a good guy, and a sturdy friend (he sent me remarkable cheeses from Switzerland when I was sick and downcast!).
Now: on 1, about comforting the sick and dying; and on 3, about Steve Anderson’s commiserating e-mail from August).
Comforting. Ann Carlson on Facebook, commenting on 1:
— AC: I have never seen that “touch me and tell me” line before, but it is so important. Years ago, my best friend was dying of cancer complicated by his HIV+ related immune-function problems. The assement came in that there was nothing more to be done, he was dying. Not doctor, nurse, nor partner were willing to tell him the verdict. They asked me to. So, one hand holding one of his and one on his shoulder, I gave him the final word and asked what he wanted in terms of hospice / palliative care.
It was an important, intimate moment. I felt closer to him then than ever before, and somehow actually felt sorry that his partner didn’t get to share that with him and left me to experience that gift of nearly ultimate intimacy.
— AZ > AC: Only once holding someone who was in the process of dying, told her I loved her, gave her one more dose of morphine, played a favorite piece of music until she was gone.
But many times holding the hand or the head of someone who was sick unto death, talking to them, or (with Jacques) singing to them (the ER at Stanford Hospital was exposed to a lot of Sacred Harp singing, melody only). I found that performing these services was immensely calming, probably as therapeutic for me as for the person I was caring for.
Commiserating. The most ordinary sort of exchange with an old friend about our lives: commiserating e-mail from Steve Anderson on 8/5, from Scuol, in Unterengadine, Switzerland:
— SA: My own health issues don’t hold a candle to yours. Aches and pains, arthritis, heart issues … But I get around. Not much mountain walking [in Switzerland] this year, but that was mostly because of the weather: either too hot or cloudy and rainy.
… The feeling that the field has completely forgotten you is not easy to get past. Apart from about 2-3 review requests / year I hear crickets from our colleagues [to his books] [this in reaction to my writing to him on 7/28: the readership of my blog plummets, especially among linguists … So I get almost no response from colleagues, even when I write about technical linguistics] … Feel free to unload. You’ll find a receptive audience here. I wish I could come and visit, but the Bay Area is far away [from Asheville NC, where Steve and Janine lived most of the year].
Two months before his death.
Leave a Reply