General Non-Fiction posted August 4, 2021 |
Pre-mortem consolation costs nothing
Letters to the Doomed
by Elizabeth Emerald
As dreadful as it must be to face one's impending death, much more so would be having to face it alone.
Two years ago, on June first (plus/minus), an acquaintance of mine, Jim, died of metastatic melanoma. Another acquaintance, Joe, is presently undergoing experimental treatment for pancreatic cancer that has spread to his stomach and liver.
I (mis)use the stilted "acquaintance," rather than refer to Jim and Joe as friends, because the latter word is that much less apropos. Though I saw both men regularly over the course of many years (twenty for Jim at twice per year; eight for Joe at one per month), I was not close to either.
Neither of them was close (at least, not in the literal sense) to anyone; both lived alone throughout their adulthood.
I learned of their illnesses fortuitously. Jim's became manifest when he collapsed at his annual mid-April party in 2019; Joe divulged his, on the QT, when I encountered him at a cookout in June.
When I learned of his illness, I wrote to Jim every week or so until his death six weeks thereafter; my last card was found in his mailbox after his body was discovered (two days post-mortem). I've written to Joe twice thus far; he's written back both times. (I got a thank-you card today.)
In my letters, I made offers of lunch and walks, at their convenience; I'd suggest several specific dates so they'd know I wasn't just spouting empty words. (Neither responded to my overtures.) I also took care to refrain from questions, lest they feel obliged to reply.
At Jim's funeral, I mobilized his core twelve-pack of party guests, and hosted a memorial New Year's Day brunch-to-supper (per his annual). I'd intended to reprise his springtime event, but Corona made it moot. In June of 2020, and again on the second anniversary of Jim's death, I released a five-part monologue script inspired by the aftermath of his illness. (By eerie coincidence, Jim's sister, Nancy, knowing I was a member, joined Fanstory the day I promoted the script; she was blindsided!)
I grew close enough to Nancy (no longer an active member) that she bequeathed me Jim's magnificent rocking chair, which was given him on the 25-year anniversary of his employment. (I'd met Jim at our workplace; I was down-and-out-sized ten years before chair-time.)
I keep a photo of Jim on my nightstand. As for Joe, I have some fabulous photos of us in racing gear, wearing medals for placing in our age divisions.
I'm going to sign off and rummage through my albums; as soon as I find a suitable picture, I'll head for my stash of frames.
As dreadful as it must be to face one's impending death, much more so would be having to face it alone.
Two years ago, on June first (plus/minus), an acquaintance of mine, Jim, died of metastatic melanoma. Another acquaintance, Joe, is presently undergoing experimental treatment for pancreatic cancer that has spread to his stomach and liver.
I (mis)use the stilted "acquaintance," rather than refer to Jim and Joe as friends, because the latter word is that much less apropos. Though I saw both men regularly over the course of many years (twenty for Jim at twice per year; eight for Joe at one per month), I was not close to either.
Neither of them was close (at least, not in the literal sense) to anyone; both lived alone throughout their adulthood.
I learned of their illnesses fortuitously. Jim's became manifest when he collapsed at his annual mid-April party in 2019; Joe divulged his, on the QT, when I encountered him at a cookout in June.
When I learned of his illness, I wrote to Jim every week or so until his death six weeks thereafter; my last card was found in his mailbox after his body was discovered (two days post-mortem). I've written to Joe twice thus far; he's written back both times. (I got a thank-you card today.)
In my letters, I made offers of lunch and walks, at their convenience; I'd suggest several specific dates so they'd know I wasn't just spouting empty words. (Neither responded to my overtures.) I also took care to refrain from questions, lest they feel obliged to reply.
At Jim's funeral, I mobilized his core twelve-pack of party guests, and hosted a memorial New Year's Day brunch-to-supper (per his annual). I'd intended to reprise his springtime event, but Corona made it moot. In June of 2020, and again on the second anniversary of Jim's death, I released a five-part monologue script inspired by the aftermath of his illness. (By eerie coincidence, Jim's sister, Nancy, knowing I was a member, joined Fanstory the day I promoted the script; she was blindsided!)
I grew close enough to Nancy (no longer an active member) that she bequeathed me Jim's magnificent rocking chair, which was given him on the 25-year anniversary of his employment. (I'd met Jim at our workplace; I was down-and-out-sized ten years before chair-time.)
I keep a photo of Jim on my nightstand. As for Joe, I have some fabulous photos of us in racing gear, wearing medals for placing in our age divisions.
I'm going to sign off and rummage through my albums; as soon as I find a suitable picture, I'll head for my stash of frames.
Two years ago, on June first (plus/minus), an acquaintance of mine, Jim, died of metastatic melanoma. Another acquaintance, Joe, is presently undergoing experimental treatment for pancreatic cancer that has spread to his stomach and liver.
I (mis)use the stilted "acquaintance," rather than refer to Jim and Joe as friends, because the latter word is that much less apropos. Though I saw both men regularly over the course of many years (twenty for Jim at twice per year; eight for Joe at one per month), I was not close to either.
Neither of them was close (at least, not in the literal sense) to anyone; both lived alone throughout their adulthood.
I learned of their illnesses fortuitously. Jim's became manifest when he collapsed at his annual mid-April party in 2019; Joe divulged his, on the QT, when I encountered him at a cookout in June.
When I learned of his illness, I wrote to Jim every week or so until his death six weeks thereafter; my last card was found in his mailbox after his body was discovered (two days post-mortem). I've written to Joe twice thus far; he's written back both times. (I got a thank-you card today.)
In my letters, I made offers of lunch and walks, at their convenience; I'd suggest several specific dates so they'd know I wasn't just spouting empty words. (Neither responded to my overtures.) I also took care to refrain from questions, lest they feel obliged to reply.
At Jim's funeral, I mobilized his core twelve-pack of party guests, and hosted a memorial New Year's Day brunch-to-supper (per his annual). I'd intended to reprise his springtime event, but Corona made it moot. In June of 2020, and again on the second anniversary of Jim's death, I released a five-part monologue script inspired by the aftermath of his illness. (By eerie coincidence, Jim's sister, Nancy, knowing I was a member, joined Fanstory the day I promoted the script; she was blindsided!)
I grew close enough to Nancy (no longer an active member) that she bequeathed me Jim's magnificent rocking chair, which was given him on the 25-year anniversary of his employment. (I'd met Jim at our workplace; I was down-and-out-sized ten years before chair-time.)
I keep a photo of Jim on my nightstand. As for Joe, I have some fabulous photos of us in racing gear, wearing medals for placing in our age divisions.
I'm going to sign off and rummage through my albums; as soon as I find a suitable picture, I'll head for my stash of frames.
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