Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Julie

Last week my friend Julie died of pancreatic cancer. While the disease was one thing we had in common, there were others. Her husband had been one of the founding members of the Keene writers' group. She was part of the local Friends Meeting at the same time as my family was. She played cello in the local orchestra where Jerry plays bassoon. Our lives, while not close, had many meeting points, even before the day I called her to say that I was newly diagnosed and had heard that she also had pancreatic cancer. She immediately arranged for us to meet so that she could share her own experiences, and this first meeting turned into an occasional get-together for an "anti-cancer meal," including as many healthy (and delicious) foods as we could think of, and conversations that included but were not limited to our states of health.

It isn't often that I get words of wisdom from TV shows, but a bit of dialog from House MD has stuck in my mind. A patient wanted to check herself out of the hospital so that she could go home and "die with dignity." House went into a rant, saying "You can't die with dignity. No one dies with dignity -- all you can do is live with dignity."

Julie proved him wrong. Both in her living and her death she showed immense dignity and grace. I will miss her.

3 comments:

academykidsaroundtheworld said...

I'm sorry, Lucie.

Arctic-mermaid said...

My condolences to all who knew and loved Julie.

Unknown said...

My brother says he sees retirement in 3 phases. (Hang in here--this is related.) In the first phase, he and his wife run around in their RV and enjoy whatever they want. In the 2nd phase, when their health limits them some, they settle down near their daughter and enjoy whatever they can. In the 3rd phase, the daughter makes the decision about who is going to change their diapers for them. He says his friends are very startled when he gets to the last line, but he thinks he is being realistic. And I do believe it is possible to be dignified even with diapers. I'm sorry you've lost your friend.