Maybe Once In A Lifetime…

Maybe once in a lifetime you’ll have a friend who, when you’re out of other options, will pick you up at 5:30 a.m. and drive you to the hospital for a 6:00 a.m. surgical appointment… then will hang around with your driver’s-licenseless significant other through the morning—coffee, a walk, schmoozing in uncomfortable chairs in the hospital lobby, another coffee—then when you’re out of Recovery, will ferry you and your significant other back home…all with wry jokes and sweet smiles. Same friend, while you’re recuperating, will come over five days in a row and walk your dog because you can’t and significant other has come down with a miserable cold… From the same friend during the holidays you can count on a jar of his homemade cranberry sauce and freshly baked apple pie—really really yummy. Same friend has never come through your front door without a carton of ice cream or cookies for your dog or basket of blackberries he just picked up the way. Same friend is the one who finally got you and your significant other to go to his gym—and it’s changed your life. Same friend took to voluntarily cleaning said gym three afternoons a week—his way of giving back…

Same friend, when you learned he was stricken with a dread disease—pancreatitis–for a long year it didn’t seem so bad…but then more and more you saw he could eat less and less and in time you learned doctors had told him the disease would be fatal. When you went out for dinner together or he came to your house he could no longer drink the red wine he loved…was cheerfully pretending to enjoy his bowl of chicken noodle soup with a glass of water when everybody else was…

But he was gallantly living the good life. A widower in his late seventies, our friend had many friends, women and men, who loved his intelligence, warmth, generosity, wit. His daughter and granddaughter had a poodle, Charlie, he walked and played with every Wednesday from puppyhood. Our friend faithfully came to several of Bill’s classes. A noted birder, he was also a docent at the Natural Bridges State Beach Monarch Butterfly Grove. With another friend, he occasionally whizzed up to San Francisco to the Opera (cracking comments all the way about his rented tuxedo).

But there were days when he didn’t come to the gym because of flare-ups…

Our friend was setting an extraordinary example of courage, acceptance, grace.

Then one day a few weeks ago, our friend asked if he could come over—not for our usual supper together, not to walk Uschi, but for a brief visit in the afternoon. Of course.

Our beloved friend sat on the sofa next to Uschi, stroking her—Uschi loved him as much as she loved Dad and me.

Our friend—Bill has known him as long as he’s lived in Santa Cruz, twenty-four years, I’ve known him the thirteen years I’ve been here—calmly, matter-of-factly told us of a plan he had been hatching over the last few years. That he was now at the point where his cognizance was diminishing—he didn’t think he should be driving much longer, so he’d just sold his treasured vintage yellow Mustang convertible. We were stunned. Our friend was increasingly concerned at having an episode of pain so he’d have to go to the E.R. then consequently end up in the hospital for weeks—which happened at the beginning of COVID.

As to his plan, our friend had a medical background—he was trained as a physician as a young man—and had done exhaustive research on the procedure… On a certain date quite soon he and his daughter would be flying to Switzerland to a clinic noted for its efficacy of “Physician Assisted Death.” (He mentioned this could be done in California, but California law was complicated, making the procedure the more difficult.)

Naturally we were upset. Naturally we tried—as delicately as we could—to dissuade him. We wholeheartedly offered him a room with us (there is no Hospice facility in Santa Cruz, but I am a trained Hospice volunteer)…offered everything we could think of that might keep him from leaving. Turned out we weren’t the only family offering this.

Not an option. He didn’t want to be a burden.

“But how can you miss the election?” says I, Mrs. Passionate Democrat, half kidding.

“I have perfect faith we’ll be fine,” he said with a smile.

Our friend came for lunch Saturday, his last time at our table. “I just want cake,” he’d said. I’d baked him a lemon poppyseed cake for our supper a few days before, but also bought slices of triple-chocolate cake and carrot cake and some pumpkin doughnuts. He ate a corner of lemon cake and every crumb of the chocolate cake.

When it was time to leave, we gave long warm embraces, took pictures, then he was gone.

Next day we tracked him—”Now they’re at the airport…”

At supper Bill and I were in a state of shock.

Then this morning just before 1:00 a.m.—10:00 a.m. in Switzerland, his appointed time—Bill couldn’t sleep and called him. Our friend answered. Bill heard laughter in the background.

Our friend said, “I’m having coffee and breakfast. It’s delicious.” Bill told him that so many people would be thrilled if he just came home. No shame, no defeat.

Our friend thanked him, sent his love, Bill gave his…ours…and the conversation ended.

When I awoke and learned Bill had talked to him, I was amazed. What a beautiful thing to do. I couldn’t have done it. I’d’ve been paralyzed by the weight of the moment.

A few hours after I knew the deed was done, I texted our beloved friend’s daughter asking if there was anything she needed, anything we could do for her.

She texted back–at that moment I reminded myself she was in Switzerland, what times we live in–“Thanks very much for your kindness. It was a very peaceful morning, and I think the experience was exactly what my dad wanted it to be.”

A colossal relief.

Except Bill and I can’t quite believe our dear friend will never come through our front door again. At least Uschi is spared that knowledge. She would also be deeply sad.

But it’s self-centered of us.

Our friend is in heaven—no doubt about it—reunited with his beloved wife…it’s why he chose October 7th to take his leave…it was the anniversary of her death.

We have accepted your path and honor your choices, dearest John.