"Bittersweet" - Jonathan's blog entry July 7, 2008

"Bittersweet"
Even until the very end, my dad appreciated all things symmetrical, orderly and mathematic. He died today at 70 years old, at 11:05 AM (1+1+5=7), on the seventh day of the seventh month of the year. Interestingly, his older brother Kenny had died at the age of 17 on July 17th, 1953. I don’t know many equations that will produce the number 7 out of 1953, but if there is one, my dad would have known it and used it in this case.

Before I got the news this morning, I was compelled by the events of the last few days to look up the letter Thomas Jefferson wrote to John Adams on the death of Adams’s wife, Abigail. Here it is:

“MONTICELLO, November 13, 1818.
The public papers, my dear friend, announce the fatal event of which your letter of October the 20th had given me ominous foreboding. Tried myself in the school of affliction, by the loss of every form of connection which can rive the human heart, I know well, and feel what you have lost, what you have suffered, are suffering, and have yet to endure. The same trials have taught me that for ills so immeasurable, time and silence are the only medicine. I will not, therefore, by useless condolences, open afresh the sluices of your grief, nor, although mingling sincerely my tears with yours, will I say a word more where words are vain, but that it is of some comfort to us both, that the term is not very distant, at which we are to deposit in the same cerement, our sorrows and suffering bodies, and to ascend in essence to an ecstatic meeting with the friends we have loved and lost, and whom we shall still love and never lose again. God bless you and support you under your heavy affliction.”

Less than two hours after I read that he was gone. That last, beautiful, gorgeous, endless run-on sentence was in my head all day, and it was much appreciated company.

Somewhere around June 25th, my dad had to be admitted to the infirmary at MIT with greatly increased weakness, anxiety and a list of physical demands that we were no longer able to meet at home. It brought him immediate relief to be in the MIT Medical Building, a few short steps from the Chemical Engineering building where he spent nearly four decades of his life - his best years - teaching, researching, experimenting and spending hours every day in the disciplined pursuit of knowledge for the benefit of others. He would be the first to tell you that he had no special gifts for math or some Newtonian genius of insight. He simply worked hard. The constant stream of visits and well-wishes from his former students and peers from all corners of the world has been an incredibly moving testament to the affect his dedication had on those around him.

He had been in a steady state of decline since some early signs of increased weakness in his ability to walk and speak in mid/late April. An MRI in June confirmed that his cancer had not only returned, but spread to the other side of his brain. The certainty of what he was facing was a relief to him, I think. Absolved of any responsibility to beat his disease for anyone else’s benefit, there was a certain clarity of purpose that colored his last couple months. He directed the same attention he had for years focused on particles of carbon towards God. He and my mom wrote a beautiful testimony that she read at Park Street Church in Boston two Sundays ago.

The last two weeks saw him steadily decline on a daily basis. Whereas the last three months were like trying to track the changes of the color of grass from summer to Autumn, the last twelve days were like watching a wildfire sweep through dry brush.

His ability to walk left him shortly after his arrival at MIT. His speech grew more labored. Many of his words became hoarse whispers that no one could understand. The last clear words he spoke to me were “I love you Jonathan, now more than ever.” He spent more and more time sleeping. We had to communicate with him by asking yes or no questions to which he could blink a response.

This last week his brother and two sisters, his niece and her son, my mom’s sister, her brother and sister-in-law and their two kids came to say their goodbyes. The warm embrace of familiar arms was welcomed by everyone. By the time everyone had left at the end of the holiday weekend, his body was simply a reflex machine, seemingly no longer driven by the conscious intent of the spirit woven into its cells. His eyes would rarely open. He would breathe a specific number of times - usually between 4 and 9 long inhales - then not breathe for a specific amount of time - usually 20 to 40 seconds, and repeat this cycle with rolex-worthy precision over and over for hours before the intervals would adjust. If he could have been witness to the rhythms of his dwindling body, the mathematician in him would have been impressed.

Meanwhile, we were all impressed by the strength of his beating heart. His pulse was so strong yesterday that the pumping of blood through this jugular vein would actually cause his head to roll slightly in rhythm. His dad lived to be 93. At 96, his mom is currently an escape hazard at her nursing home. Every organ in my dad’s body, except for one, wanted to keep going. His engine had another 25 years left on it.

His last breath was a peaceful one. There was no great spasm, gasp or any sign of struggle. Despite suffering these long months with the loss of the control of his body, his personality twisted by the side effects of his medicine, at the very end the ship that came to take him away sailed on smooth seas.

Everyone had an opportunity to tell him everything they ever wanted to, namely how much we loved him, how much he had meant in our lives, how much he had taught us, how sorry we were that he had to go through this, and most of all that it was okay for him to leave us.

For most of the past 8 years I’ve been 3000 miles from the greatest teacher and best friend I’ll ever have. We’ve had our differences which have at times distracted from the love at the essence of our relationship. The miles between Boston and Los Angeles made short work of those differences. I’d argue that distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, it simply removes the varnish of petty distractions that coat the fondness that exists endlessly between us. With this in mind, my heart can barely contain the love I feel for my dad, now that the distance between us has grown so enormous that no amount of earthly travel can bring us closer.
It helps greatly to have all of you in our lives, as you’ve shown us nothing but support and love through this whole process. I look forward to sharing some stories about my dad with you soon, and to hearing the ones you might have to share with me. There are a lot of them out there.

I like to think that at this moment he is on a farm somewhere beyond our consciousness, serenaded at night by gentle rain on a tin roof, and in the morning will be working heavenly soil with his brother and his dad, a family slowly reuniting in a place more perfect than this one.