_____________________
Over the weekend, Oliver mentioned a few times that he was considering writing “a little piece” about receiving his diagnosis. And on Sunday night, after we had made dinner and cleared the dishes, he took up a small notepad and his fountain pen. At the top of the pad, he wrote, “Sad, shocking, horrible, yes,” underlining each word, “but…”
(Oliver often said that but was his favorite word, a kind of etymological flip of the coin, for it allowed consideration of both sides of an argument, a topic, as well as a kind of looking-at-the-bright-side that was as much a part of his nature as his diffidence and indecisiveness.) Next, he proceeded to list eight and a half reasons to remain hopeful; to feel lucky at the very moment when one might reasonably feel most unlucky.
He wrote quickly, thinking aloud as he wrote, then making one or two corrections with a red-colored felt pen. Once he’d finished, he handed the pad over to me to read:
But …
1. AN EASY DEATH (relatively)
2. TIME—to “complete” life
3. LOVING SUPPORT (Billy, et al.)
4. BOOK PUBLISHED (open at last about myself)
5. MORE GOOD WORK
6. ENJOYMENT ALLOWED
(6-A) MJ now legit
7. BEST DOCTORS, TREATMENTS, ETC. AVAILABLE
8. PSYCHIATRIC SUPPORT
I got choked up, the reality of what he and he and I were facing made all too real by his words on paper. I felt, too, amazed that he was able to collect his thoughts and do so with such aplomb and straightforward eloquence. Unlike myself—more of a melancholic sort—Oliver always was essentially cheerful in temperament, and this list—including the making of a list, an ordering and structuring of the world, not unlike his beloved periodic table of the elements—was very much in character.
As a doctor himself, he had seen more than the average share of grisly and protracted deaths, and he knew that—all things considered—there were probably worse ways to die (ALS, for instance, or, for that matter, the post-encephalitic condition that had doomed his Awakenings patients); hence, this form of liver cancer would bring a “relatively” easy death, so long as it didn’t metastasize to his bones or lungs.
For myself, I felt particularly grateful for number two on his list, as I told Oliver: “I’m thankful we have time, will at least have more time together, however much it is. Even just this weekend, even if this weekend is all we have? That’s more than I had at the end with Steve.”
He understood, and agreed. But for him, “time” meant far more: time to “complete” his life on his own terms, finally coming out publicly as a gay man through his memoir, time to see the book published, time to write pieces he had wanted to write, time to get things in order, time that a sudden and unexpected death, or the slow demise of an illness such as Alzheimer’s, would not allow.
As for number six, “enjoyment,” from the very beginning that was equally important, too, and it was with an impish sense of humor that he had gone back to the list and added “#6-A,” which indicated that “MJ”—i.e., marijuana, or cannabis—could now be legitimately, medically, and without any guilt whatsoever consumed.
I have kept this list, for those eight-and-a-half tenets helped guide him (and me) in the months ahead. It also became the basic blueprint for his essay “My Own Life,” which originated over the dinner table as well.
Two, maybe three, nights after he’d jotted his little list, I asked Oliver what he had in mind in terms of the essay he was considering.
“Well, let’s see …” He paused. “I suppose I want to begin by saying that a month ago, I felt that I was in good health. But … now my luck has run out…”
“Hold it,” I interrupted, “let me get a pen.”
I did so, and a notepad, and I scribbled what he had just said. “Okay, keep going.”
Oliver started over, his voice now more self-assured: “A month ago, I felt that I was in good health, even robust health. But my luck has run out—last week I learned that I have multiple metastases in my liver…”