Fearing she might sound too optimistic about her own health at a time when Carol was in worsening shape, Elma waited for a couple of weeks before writing specifically to Carol, two letters in four days. By this time, however, her own situation had changed yet again, and she felt it important to let Carol know.
Dear Carol,
I have been thinking about you a great deal. I have to say, if I am to go by what my body is telling me right now, I don’t think I have much time left, which, at the moment, doesn’t seem like much of a tragedy. Of course, when/if I am not in so much pain, I may feel quite differently.
One good thing—since I feel a need to talk to someone in the middle of the night when I start to get scared, and I can’t bring myself to deprive Mart (or my various loving and willing friends) of sleep, I have found that I am being forced to talk to God, which seems to work! And at least He/She is not going to lose sleep over it.
The upshot is that I’m still basically very content with my lot. Martin is in for a few rude shocks, though. He always relied on me to remember stuff for him! He’s doing OK, and seems a bit less tense. Anyway, I don’t want you to feel at all saddened by what’s going on (or not) in my brain. I really feel quite happy at present and still very blessed, apart from the physical pain. The mental stuff I can handle, so far. Funny—I thought it would be the other way around.
I have been re-reading The Stone Diaries, which I did not appreciate at all properly the first time round. How on earth did you know, at the age you were then, so much about how it feels to be dying?
Saw my oncologist today, and when I asked how fast the symptoms of deterioration (mental and physical) would increase, she said, in effect, “How fast did it happen at the beginning?” To that I replied, “Very fast indeed.” Of course, she’s not committing herself to anything, but she sort of shrugged and said, “Well, you know that’s the way this cancer operates.”
When I say physical, I include chest pain from coughing—I have a cold and various other infections—though the pain from what they call TMJ, a disorder of the jaw, is far worse. The chest pain is possibly a consequence of the ribs being broken (well, cracked) through coughing.
I do wish I knew with more precision when and how fast the sky is likely to fall. I want to see my kids again, and they will want to see me, but how to plan for this?
Good night and God bless.
Elma
Dearest Carol (Also Dear A.),
Way back last fall, I wrote you and said I was going to have to decide about whether or not to have my colon removed. In the same letter, I said I was being bothered by something else as well, but I wasn’t going into details, since I knew too little, and it was still only in the “something doesn’t feel right” stage. I just knew it was either something of no consequence, or far more serious than the colon thing, and it was, of course, my lungs.
Now, once again I sincerely hope I am reading wrongly what my body seems to be telling me. But in case I’m not, let me say again how much it has meant to me (and still does) to have you “hand in hand in our adventure together. Onward!” What I am still praying for is a “good death”—that I will remain accepting and at peace and that above all I will keep my sense of humour.
Carol, you are a candle to light the sun— many suns for many people—and your presence written (in both your letters and your books), physically in the world, and felt (though the latter through a cloud darkly at times) have seen me through the bleakest of times. What would I have done without you? Your friendship has made all the difference between just enduring and enduring with enjoyment, and even joy.
There’s a quote somewhere about friendship being a “world without end.” I trust ours is. If I say “I won’t ever leave you,” I sound like Jesus, and even my egotism doesn’t stretch that far. But I don’t see my leaving you if you ever need me. My concept of space/time precludes that, for one thing. “Eternity in an hour”—or a nanosecond. As far as I’m concerned, it’s still and always an adventure together—onward! I’m always there for you—with a candle.
Much love, and gratitude for having had my life touched by yours,
Elma
P.S. Arthur—of course most of this applies to you equally. The “adventure together” bit comes from an inscription Carol wrote to me in one of her books, the title story of “Dressing Up,” which was my favourite in that collection for a number of reasons.
Elma sensed that her time would now be very short; and, sensing something of this myself, I wrote immediately to Martin. His reply included a direct message from Elma.
Dear Arthur,
Thank you for your note and your concern. I knew that it would embrace both of us. Basically I find that my own moods vary with Elma’s feelings and experiences. Consequently, most of this year has been quite bearable, because Elma herself has been so positive in her attitude … When she begins to lose her grip on what’s happening, I find myself silently pleading, impotently, “Please don’t go!” But the saddest times are when I know she’s in a lot of physical pain. She surprised herself with the discovery that simple physical pain is more scary, for her, than the loss of mental faculties. So it’s more of an agony for the partner as well. And what’s causing the serious pain right now? Not the cancer, but the jawbone!
[Addendum by E.: You would think that anyone who has endured pre-antibiotic ear infections, abscessed teeth, and childbirth— the pain of which I thought at the time was unsurvivable—would have a clue. But it wasn’t until I realized that given a choice between losing a brain faculty such as, say, my hearing and enduring the pain in my jaw, and realizing that losing hearing would win hands down, that I realized how bad my situation was. Losing my sight would be a tougher call.]
So please join us in a paean of thanks for 21st-century antibiotics and anodynes.
Love,
Martin [and Elma]
It was a further week before Elma felt strong enough to write a letter on her own, this time sending the same one to Carol and me as she sent to a number of other friends, but showing some evidence of an inability to express herself in clear sentences:
All of you, please send some prayers, thought-waves, etc., for my assessment on the 3rd of April. I hadn’t realized that I did have some hopes for that very faint light at the end of the tunnel until I’ve now learned how much faster my brain functions are deteriorating than are my physical, except that they’re interdependent, of course—in a sense, everything is a brain function … I’m afraid when they assess me now, they’ll say—forget it—it’s not worth it. (Probably true, too.) But pray that I will accept whatever I’m landed with, and do so with peace and humour.
Love, thanks, and—anyone who wants to even talk to me on the phone, or e-mail me, one last time had better get moving! I’m sorry I’m going to be so disoriented and confused for the rest of the future. Really, so as not to tire myself too much for even talking, I should get you to pick a number or buy a lottery ticket! Getting to see me or talk to me may be a matter of luck!
Right now, I am busy choosing music for my funeral. I think not “When the saints go marching in,” but I like “So long, it’s been good to know ya,” or “I’ve done laid around this ol’ town too long, and it seems like it’s time to travel on.” If you want a tear-jerker, I’m very fond of “Ye Banks and Braes” and also of “Loch Lomond”—“Ye’ll tak’ the high road … and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye.”
I apologize to those who may feel I’m being a trifle too flippant. Sorry, guys, that’s my style, it’s how I cope, and absolutely no disrespect is meant to anyone or any power.
Pass the word—but discreetly.
Elma
Two days later, I received a note of my own.
Dear A.,
Whatever he may say, Mart is having a very tough time right now—it is finally hitting him that he is going to lose me. I’ve been trying for ages to get him to believe that this whole business will be much harder on him than on me, but men are so stubborn—they
have to tough it out. Women have the advantage of being used to talking about their feelings, and accepting emotional support from groups of friends. Men, in general, it seems to me, don’t have those kinds of friendships; won’t ask for help; won’t let themselves break down. I know there are lots of exceptions, but I seem to run into the rule—maybe partly because of my age. Anyway, Mart is going to need a lot of help and feelings of being cared about in the next year or whatever, and he is grateful for it, whether he shows it or not. You are very good about expressing these things. Also, you have many interests—like music and the theatre, in fact, literature in general—in common, so maybe you could drop him an e-line occasionally? Or a short story? (Only if you feel like it—I’m not trying to pull a “to you from failing hands” deal here, as if I were John McCrae in Flanders Fields!) And do you have any more stories for me while I can still follow a plot line?
Ever … ever … ever …
E.
Dear E.,
I am keeping all fingers and toes crossed that you will hear something reassuring from your assessment tomorrow; and yes, of course, I will keep in touch with Martin, as I will with you through all those ways known to anyone aware that we are more than just physical and material beings. You will be around when I listen to Mahler. You will always be part of my life when I read poetry, especially Hopkins, which I did the other day, reading aloud to myself “The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo,” thinking it was meant for you—“See; not a hair is, not an eyelash, not the least lash lost … the thing we freely forfeit is kept with fonder a care, fonder a care kept than we could have kept it.” If necessary, I will always remind Martin of these truths, so don’t worry.
As for short stories, did I ever send you “Lions at Delos”? You might like that one. I’ll print it for you if you haven’t got it already.
Any recent news of Carol? I see there is to be a reading in her honour at Harbourfront in Toronto. All sorts of writers will be there, including Michael Ondaatje.
Ever … ever … ever …
A.
Like Elma, Michael had been a student of mine at Bishop’s University, but he arrived in 1962, the year after she graduated. Had they been there together, each would have admired the other’s gifts, the sensitivity, the intelligence, the rare insights, evidenced at this early age, each of them rejoicing in language. Although she never mentioned it to me in her last years, I like to think that Elma might, at some point, have read these lines from Michael’s book of poems Handwriting, published in 1998, for she would have greatly admired them, as I do. A teacher can be humbled—this one, anyway—by a former student whose use of English points out “an unknown field or surprising city over the horizon.”
It was water in an earlier life I could not take into my mouth when I was dying. I was soothed then the way a plant would be, brushed with a wet cloth, as I reduced all thought into requests. Take care of this flower. Less light. Curtain. As I lay there prone during the long vigil of my friends. The ache of ribs from too much sleep or fever—bones that protect the heart and breath in battle, during love beside another. Saliva, breath, fluids, the soul. The place bodies meet is the place of escape.
Elma’s reply to me showed once more how clear her critical judgment could be on her good days. Even as a student, forty years earlier, she had never been afraid to speak her mind.
Dear A.,
Yes, I did read “Lions,” but though, as I said at the time, I found the descriptions very evocative, I also found the story itself a bit predictable. I preferred “The Baptism,” which I think you sent at the same time. “Her Treasures” is still my favourite.
You said all the right things regarding poetry associations and also regarding Mart— he knows a lot of Hopkins by now.
Everybody except me seems to have heard about the release of Carol’s book. Can’t remember if I told you I got an advance proof from Random House. Have you seen any reviews? I haven’t, and would love to know what the word is. I have only read it once, so can’t make a final assessment, but so far I think it’s her Big One. I loved it. A wonderful note to end on.
Like me, C. goes up and down in wild swings—more down than up. I’ve told her I’ll race her to the bottom of our downhill ski race or whatever this is.
Ever … ever … ever …
E.
I wrote back the next day, unaware that she had asked of me her last question in what was to be her last letter. She was racing Carol to the bottom of the hill and getting there first.
Dear E.,
Yes, you did tell me you had read an advance proof of Carol’s book, and I’m so glad you liked it; but no, I haven’t seen any reviews of it yet.
I stopped writing short stories because I never seemed to get anywhere with them, but I’ll look to see if I have anything else you might like to read.
This is your assessment day. I am thinking of you.
Ever … ever … ever …
A.
It was the day after the April 3rd assessment that Martin wrote to me and others on Elma’s list.
First of all, the radiotherapy specialist stressed that she continues to feel very encouraged by the results of the CT scan that was done on February 9, which showed that all of the brain tumours have been reduced in size by the radiotherapy that was performed last fall.
Secondly, she said very firmly that she will not advise a second round of radiotherapy at this time, which would involve a high risk of very undesirable side effects, including drastic memory loss and personality change.
This carried an implication that had not occurred to either of us before today: Elma’s recent memory loss and disorientation may be in part a side effect of the radiotherapy of last fall, and not simply due to the brain tumours now starting to grow back. In other words, the recent symptoms should not lead us to conclude that the tumours are growing wildly right now. That is good news so far as Elma’s current life expectancy is concerned, though, as usual, the doctor would not volunteer any specific estimate. She said very earnestly to Elma, “You have a good quality of life right now.” But perhaps this was just because she only saw Elma sitting down: Elma moving around does not look like a well person these days. Or it may be a reflection on the overall health of her other patients.
She has ordered a bone scan, which will take place within a few weeks (to make sure that the recent problems with ribs and jaw are not due to the cancer’s having spread to the bones). The last bone scan was done in September, and was negative. There is no reason to think that this one will come back positive. Other than that, she advises us to concentrate on alleviating the jaw pain—with various pain killers for the short run and physiotherapy for the longer run.
There’s to be an appointment with the oncologist who is coordinating Elma’s cancer treatment on Thursday, April 11. It will represent the next stage in the decision-making. Martin
[Elma writes: Thanks to all of you for your love and support. I have somewhat mixed feelings at the moment: a definite decision to do something, however risky, always appeals to me. However, the doctor was very firm about the danger of more radiotherapy. Basically, she’s saying, “You’ve done marvellously well so far. Why mess with a good thing?”
I want to thank all of you again for being there for me at all times throughout this rather trying—and scary—period, and I know it has been hard on my family and friends as well! We are also grateful for your having left us in peace today—which we needed—though we are anxious to talk to you individually when time and energy permit.
All this sounds so stilted.
Hey guys, I love you all
Elma]
“I do feel sorry for you reading all this whining,” Elma had written in the first of these Staircase Letters, but it was now more than a year later, and neither she nor Carol had ever given a hint of whining. They might have wished for more time to love the world they were in and to finish what they had set out to do, but they never complained. They were making a last journey together, and
they would hold fast, as Ulysses did:
… that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
A genuine lover of Victorian poetry, the young student Elma and now the older, dying Elma would never dismiss Tennyson as old-fashioned and sentimental, irrelevant in today’s sterner world. I am reminded also of Stanley Spencer, the highly regarded British artist, who died almost seventy years after Tennyson. Because he could no longer speak, he wrote down his last words: “Sorrow and sadness is not for me.” For Carol and Elma, their message was the same.
Not realizing that what I would be writing next would be my last letter to Elma, I assured her on the same day that she was seeing her oncologist that I was thinking of her.
Dear E.,
I think of you every day, of course, and know that today you are seeing your oncologist, so I will be anxious to hear about that when you or Martin can tell me.
I have started to read Unless with real delight. Books have to stand on their own, I know, without the reader having to know much (even anything) about the author; but when a personal thread is there, appreciation can be heightened. Such discipline and freedom in the writing! I am reminded of my friend Joe Plaskett, the artist: when I see his work, I realize more than ever that he, at eighty-three, has the insight and the skills to paint anything he wants to paint, and he does. Carol, too, uses language now in any way she wants, and with an unerring sense for what’s right, to say all the perceptive things she has to say, and I am full of admiration.
Today was a real spring day, and I worked in the garden this afternoon. I have aching muscles tonight to prove it! I hope you are having some good days. I’m sure you inspire all those around you.
The Staircase Letters Page 7