Me: Do you ever wonder why we became friends? And why our friendship is so easy and fast?
Jack: I thought a good deal about it and usually attribute it to your generosity of spirit and my responsiveness to that. I tend to underestimate my own generosity. I sort of have a blindspot about it… Another thing I like about you is your ability and willingness to ask straightforward questions like that.
At the end of December, Jack and I met in a virtual cancer support group…
just three months ago.
That was the day he was told by his oncologist that there was nothing more that could be done for him, and he should reach out to Hospice. Jack has advanced-stage prostate cancer.
When he shared this with us, my stomach dropped. This is a conversation that I have pictured having with my oncologist as well.
It frightens me as does death.
The next day, Jack reached out to me through the social worker who runs the support group. As soon as she shared his number, I called him. Our first conversation ran about 30 minutes and was easy, simple and matter-of-fact. Initially, the conversation revolved around resources, support people, side effects of treatment and ways to navigate them, but I knew he needed more. I did too.
So, I asked him how he felt about dying and if he was ready for it.
He was not but felt it knocking on the door, whispering in his ear. He was approaching it in a very cerebral-like manner. I was a resource that he could use to gather information. In this way, he could remain distanced from death. I recognize this strategy and feeling having employed it myself many times.
After that first conversation our communication turned into daily texts - good morning greetings and photographs of bright pink morning skies. We would run through our schedules for the days - cancer patients have lots and lots and lots of doctors’ appointments which may become routine but always feel overwhelming and tedious.
Turns out we are both Libras my birthday October 10, 1967 and Jack’s October 12, 1933. I think that is why our relationship was so easy and candid. That and the cancer thing. We had a lot in common.
Since then, we text everyday.
We share photos. He sent me pictures of his family. His four kids and wife. A video of his grandson Curtis, who he described as “graceful”, competing in a cross country ski event in Wyoming where they live. I sent him pictures of my recent trip to Palm Springs and an audio clip of the mockingbird that woke me each morning. Lately, Jack has become so weak his legs no longer work. He spends much of his time on the couch in his living room tucked right behind the wall of his kitchen nook.
A few weeks ago, Jack invited me to his house for coffee. He bragged about his French press and serving up a “mean cup of coffee”. His daughter drives up from Olympia every other week to visit him, so I joined the two of them. She buys French pastries, and he makes the coffee. He loves his morning routines of stretching, shaving, showering, and making a breakfast of coffee, salmon and grits.
Jack lives alone. His wife has Alzheimer’s and advanced breast cancer and lives in an assisted living home miles from his house. His visit to her more of an agitation than a comfort, and because of this abundance of time alone, it was easy for us to become emotional supports for one another. We had deep conversations about existentialism, death as a spirtual adventure, assisted suicide, Irish wakes and the final stages of life; spirtuality, isolation and fear. We even spoke of the “fourth dimension” and quantam physics - I did my best with these topics and did not mind taking a learning stance when they came up.
At my urging, he pursued a second opinion for his treatment. Dr. Zhang said there was another line of chemo they could try. Jack tried. We tried reframing perspectives such as chemotherapy being about healing rather than destroying. Yet, the side effects were too much. I remember when he texted that he had decided to stop treatment. Yet, he also stated he going to get his hair cut after seeing his doctor. I found this odd yet comforting knowing it meant he was not giving up entirely. At that time, he thought he had a year to a year and a half to live.
That was just a few weeks ago. He stepped up to the precipice of the mountain and the fall has been rapid.
He called me “Noble company” and his housekeeper Charlotte “a right-winger but not a nutcase”. He is smart and funny. One day he texted he was considering getting the phrase “release your worry and control Jack” tattooted on the back of his hand. I was having him practice voicing affirmations - this being one of them. He worked as a psychiatrist for 50 years, reluctantly retiring at 77. He likes to “push on” ideas which I found resulted in interesting conversations. His mind has stayed sharp throughout the entire process of his body dying. Using a cell phone was nothing to him. He hyperlinked songs for me to listen to, read my Substack posts via an app he downloaded, learned how to throw some confetti and large balloons in a text, downloaded Qwirkle, an app to play online games with me, sent me memes and gifs.
He spoke about how having compassion for others is about having compassion for oneself. He is very sensitive not just in death but throughout his entire life. He expressed worry about those who love him and will be without him after his passing. He enjoyed “philosophical conversations” and lately he shared he was “learning to live without hope” and was trying to “trust in the process” rather than fiercely trying to “control outcomes”. He shared with me that he was learning to give himself grace rather than thinking it something he had to earn. Sometimes making things too cerebral becomes the problem and these last weeks his fraility was leading to bouts of heavy sadness. He was truly making attempts at being rather than fixing.
His lack of control was something he struggled with daily.
Yes, despite our ages we had far more in common than naught.
Maybe it is a Libra thing.
Last Friday:
Jack: Julie, everything got completely mixed up kinda like me. I’m pretty much dead in the water at this point. I am going to ask the end of life guy to come over this weekend and talk.
Me: No apologies needed Jack.
I just want to make sure you get everything and everyone you need right now.
Thank you for reaching out to me and allowing me to be part of your life these last few months. I have appreciated the support we have provided for each other.
You have made a difference in my life.
On Saturday, Jack: reacted with a heart to that message.
Me: Oh, you are still here!
I worry/ponder your death everyday.
However,
It seems you are ready for it?
The medication is keeping you from pain but in your weakness and lack of physical ability, you are finding a comfort and acceptance in dying that you did not understand would be possible?
This is how I have been coming to understand the process from our texts.
I hope you are at peace Jack. I truly do.
Jack: You nailed it. Although not quite yet please.
Me: Jack, I think you will be here until YOU decide it is time to go.
Yesterday, I sent him a picture of a cherry blossom tree, perfect, big blossoms in front of a bright blue sky. Jack loves flowers - lilies are his favorite.
I have heard nothing from him since Friday which is not like him at all.
I am not sure if Jack is still alive.
I think I feel he is … but just.
However, what I do know for certain is just like me, Jack desperately fought for control and an education from death. Our friendship helped me with the process of not being as fearful of dying -
perhaps when my time comes, I too will find respite and peace when my “breath becomes air”.
Sending hugs.
As of Easter, Jack was still alive. I tread lightly on checking in too much, because I don’t want to be TOO much. It is hard.
Writing and sharing the piece about him, about us, was cathartic. And the BEST part about the process was receiving a text from him when he read it.