Just Learned of This -- Others May Already Know

[Jamie Ann]

From Terry Gal's (Tom's) wife, Pat:

      I am sorry to inform you that Tom passed away from a combination of leukemia and the effects of a fall, which resulted in serious injuries. One of his last requests was that the attached message be sent to those persons he was most fond of and held in highest esteem. I take no responsibility for the contents, and in fact would say, “Read at your own risk.”

**************

                                         Valedictory

      If you're reading this, I'm dead. (I guess that's what they mean by "cutting to the chase.")

      I am by no means the first person to observe that death, and the prospect of dying, is the pornography of our time. You can discuss the most kinky and depraved sexual activity in polite company these days, and nobody bats an eye. But mention the topic of death or dying...! On at least two occasions in my life, I have had friends who knew that they were presently going to die. I would like to have addressed this with them, if I could, but the conventions forbade it. People wonder how it feels to know you're going to die, but that's something they cannot ask.

      But now that I am facing my own imminent extinction, I'm going to talk about it, the conventions be damned. I have been diagnosed with an essentially incurable leukemia, and as I write this I'm, for all practical purposes, dead meat. (People are beginning to bandy the word, "hospice," about.)

      I apologize for springing this on you so suddenly, but I've always tended to avoid the moribund. It gives me the creeps — as if it were bad juju. I don't know whether other people share this superstition, but the dying are never treated normally. So many things you mustn't talk about when they're around. Since I wanted to be treated the same as always, I have kept my mouth shut. But now all shall be revealed, and talked about. If you find this disturbing, distasteful, or offensive, stop here and go off and read some relatively acceptable topic — perhaps the details of sex between men and, say, under-age rhinoceroses. Or whips and chains.

      My diagnosis is acute myelogenous leukemia (AML). It's a killer. One's marrow is where blood is manufactured. The stem cells there differentiate into red and white cells, platelets, and other formed elements that enable blood to do what it does. In AML, some of these stem cells have a mutation that makes them unable to differentiate. Life, and nature, being what they are, these useless cells of course proliferate wildly until they've squeezed out the normal stem cells. So your blood gradually runs out of the formed elements that you depend on to live. It's a little like bleeding to death, only slower — and leaving no nasty, gory mess to clean up.

      Chemotherapy for this is possible, but rough, really rough. It is not one of those affairs where you drop in once a week as an outpatient, then get back home on your own. We're talking six weeks in intensive care, sick as a dog, bleeding from every orifice and, if you manage to survive all that, there's a 50-50 chance, at my age, of having gone through all that hell for nothing. If you do get a remission, there's no telling how long it will last, and my body has already been subjected to enough insults and humiliations by Bitch Nature. Moreover, even if I were cured, there would still be that sarcoma waiting for its chance. So I have elected to duck the chemotherapy and let happen what will. As I write this, I am living from one blood trans-fusion to the next — like a modern-day vampire.

      It's creepy, deciding to die. But you know, our culture has a tendency to value quantity over quality. Not how good, but how much. But I'm the other way: not how much, but how good. And when you apply that to life itself, in my situation, there's only one conclusion you can reach. Sir Peter Medawar would have had a fit. He was one of those who think that as long as you're alive, in no matter how wretched a state, that's good enough. Sir Peter was one of my heroes, but in this particular case, he was full of manure.

      If I were in my twenties and in apparently robust health, I'd be devastated by all this; but (a) I've been face to face with my own mortality ever since my surgery in 2000 and (b) I'm 73 now, with a rich and satisfying career and an extraordinarily rich and satisfying life behind me. Nothing can take those from me.

      And how do I feel about death? How does one react to the fetid breath of Azrael, the angel of death? Supposedly, one is supposed to go through denial, bargaining, anger, and finally surrender. I'm too arrogant for denial. (Besides, I'd look pretty silly denying something I've deliberately chosen by a conscious act of will.) There's a fine line to be drawn here: you want to face up to your impending death without flinching, but you also want to continue living as normal a life as possible.

      I have no bargaining chips: I quit smoking — alas! — a couple of years ago, and I live a pretty healthy life style. It's ironic — I always promised myself that if I got cancer, I'd start smoking again. After all, you're going to die anyway; what's left for it to do to you? And here I am with leukemia, and I need all the oxygen I can get. Oh, well.

      Anger — is that it? My natural impulse is to lash out: to say, “From now on, the hell with everybody else. I'm going to live for myself alone!” But that’s no good, either; I've been doing that all along. One of the peculiarities of my life has been that when I've lived for myself alone, that's precisely when I've been of the greatest use, not only to myself, but to everyone around me. It was my youthful fits of altruism that unfailingly left me in some hopeless dead end, no good to myself OR to anybody else: a burden rather than a contributor. So I've already been living for myself alone over the last few decades, with the usual beneficial effects for all concerned.

      Beyond that, my feelings are inconsistent. On the one hand, I resent Nature's final kick in the teeth — and who wouldn't? On the other hand, I find it a relief. I resent it because naturally no sane man takes pleasure in contemplating his own destruction, but also because, just when you're beginning to understand what things are all about, it's too late and you're dead. I've heard people say that once you see what things were all about, your task on earth is done. But I say, once I've gained some understanding, I want to be around to enjoy the use of it and revel in it. Around here, I mean, not in some hypothetical fuzzy paradise that may or may not in fact exist. And don't tell me it's not for me to judge; I'm judging, whether it’s “for me” to do so or not.

      I’m sorry to abandon Pat this way. The bereaved have to suppress feelings of resentment at being abandoned by the dying. Pat and I have discussed this. On the other hand, I'm leaving her modestly well off, and now perhaps she'll be able to sell this house and move to some place she will find congenial.

      It is a relief because I will leave so many unpleasant things behind me (think of never again having to do taxes!) and, more importantly, will avoid so many unpleasant things to come. This new century is going to be no picnic. The twentieth century was one of the most appalling for anomie and wholesale murder, but at least we didn't live in an anthill. In this new century, we will, and in that anthill I foresee a drastic suppression of the individual liberties that make life worth living. The only alternatives I see are widespread, devastating disease or widespread, devastating war. This was one of several reasons why I never reproduced: I didn't want kids of mine to grow up and live in such a world. For myself, every time I read of some new threat to (or, sometimes, from) the environment, I think I'd just rather evade all of those disagreeable eventualities; and if dying will enable me to, then maybe that's not such a bad deal, after all.

      When you're about to die, you're set free. All our lives, our actions are constrained by their possible consequences. But now, you have nothing to lose; there's nothing they can do to you, whoever "they" are. Subject only to your responsibilities to those close to you, you can do anything you want to do and don't have to do anything you don't want to do.

      Furthermore, if I die now, it will be at a point in my life where the cost is minimal, or nearly so. For me the worst possible time to die would have been in my middle twenties. By that time, I had invested more than two decades of unremitting toil, of growth and learning, in the hope of reaping five or more decades of payoff. To die then would have been to see all that investment shot to hell with nothing to show for it. But now I have enjoyed that payoff, in abundance, and while I'm greedy for still more payoff, I have to accept the fact that I've gotten a good deal more than I could reasonably have expected, so that if I die now, I don’t have much cause for complaint. If you measure the value of life by the cost of death, and if you measure the cost of death by the imbalance between investment and payoff, then my life had the highest value in my twenties, rising from zero at conception to a plateau at that period and gently declining ever since.

      But that’s not what people wonder about, is it? They want to know, do you (brrrr!) fear death? The fog in your throat, the mist in your face? Well, at some animal level, I suppose I must. I assume it’s a biological imperative wired into any animal with enough of a nervous system to feel fear at all. But I don't feel anything like that consciously. Resentment, yes, but not fear. And — for what it's worth — I haven't had any dreams that I would think indicated fear. Strange. Maybe my unconscious mind knows something I don't.

      And what do I expect after death? I have no idea. Certainly not the Christian escheats — death, judgment, heaven, and hell. (Well, death of course, but not the rest.) I hope I shall meet and know that sweet goddess whom I've worshipped over the last half of my life. Logically, one would expect oblivion. But that's hard to conceive, especially for someone as intensely alive and self-aware as I have been. If the long habit of living indisposes us to dying, the long habit of self-awareness indisposes us to oblivion. In any case, I shall find out, if one can find out, soon enough.

      Regrets? They say that no man ever lay on his deathbed wishing he had spent more time at the office. I'm suspicious of statements beginning with “No man ever...” because human behavior is so varied that you never know when you will run up against a counterexample. I have few regrets, in fact. Most of the reason is that my life turned out far better than I ever expected in my early years. I never expected to be a professor. I never thought of myself as the kind of man who got a PhD. I never expected to be a published author, or a landowner.

      If it should prove that my death is traceable to my twenty or so years of smoking — which, according to my oncologist, it isn't — I don't regret that either, and I certainly don't want my heirs to join a lot of irresponsible people in suing the tobacco companies. That’s sheer greed and an evasion of responsibility. I smoked with my eyes open, fully aware of the dangers, and I accept full responsibility for the consequences to myself. I want no meddler attaching my name to a class-action lawsuit.

      Most of my regrets are for things I couldn't help. Birth defects, mostly. I regret that I was not born smarter. I especially regret that I was not made more people-smart. I regret not having a stronger, more athletic, quicker, better-coordinated body. This disability, besides making my childhood and adolescence a hell, because of the pervasive athleticism and machismo among the middle-American gentile males with whom I grew up, also prevented me from being as able a keyboard player as I should like to have been — with so much of Rachmaninoff, Ravel, Liszt, Beethoven, and Schubert off limits to me — or as good a dancer. This kind of innate clumsiness isn't one of the things commonly considered birth defects, but that's what it is, nonetheless.

      I also regret that my retirement turned out to be such a washout. I had hoped for a rich and rewarding post-retirement career, something that would keep me busy for another ten to twenty years and would provide — in my own mind, anyway — a sort of capstone to my life. (It would have had to be in my own mind, since your life has only such meaning as you are able to impose on it yourself, in your own mind.)

      In my twenties I was bounced about by Fate in all sorts of unlikely directions, a process that bestowed on me a breadth of background not granted to most people (and that incidentally had the gratifying side-effect of making me appear a good deal smarter than I actually am). This accidental bouncing around left me with a wealth of ill-assorted, oddball knowledge, which has never been properly put to use.

      Along with this bouncing about came a series of mysterious lucky breaks, occurring at intervals throughout my adult life, thanks to which I ended up much better off and a much better person than I would have been otherwise. And what I looked for, eventually, was something that would make me feel that all that bouncing and all that good fortune had not been bestowed on me in vain. It seemed to me that such a series of extraordinary lucky breaks should properly befall someone of some importance, not me: someone who made a difference, a big difference, the kind of person about whom biographies are written, the kind of person whose papers go to some university library after his death, the kind about whom dissertations, and for whom festschrifts, are written. Not a nobody like me. And not having found this justification during my career, I hoped that it might show up after retirement. I had no idea what kind of thing this would be, and I didn't know how to find it.

      Fond memories? Oh, lots of those, chief among them my marriage. When I think back and realize how little I knew about the situation I was getting into, it chills me. But my unconscious mind must have known that it was the right thing for me, and he it was who prodded me into taking that crazy, ill-advised step that has brought so much joy, peace, and contentment into my life. Better and better, year by year. Men who go on about what wonderful wives they have are a bit tedious; nevertheless, I'm going to bore you for a bit. The first weeks and months of marriage bring many surprises, and it was my blessing that the surprises were all pleasant ones. But in addition, as the years have gone on, we have become closer and closer, and she, in particular, has been wonderfully supportive. I sometimes think that in her case the Three Little Words are "Go for it." She has told me that so many times. Never questioning, never doubting, always encouraging. You hear of men who become achievers because their wives never stopped pushing. I wonder. I suspect it’s more often because the husbands couldn’t resist showing off: “Look what I've been able to do, Honey!”

      There’s supposed to be an ancient Chinese curse, "May you live in an interesting period in history." Well, the 20th Century was an interesting period in history, and I wouldn't have missed it for anything. Interesting periods are great — provided you can observe the fireworks from a safe distance, which I did. And not just the fireworks; the fun, too: the music of Stravinsky, the choreography of Balanchine, and the early-music revival; Finnegan’s Wake, the novels of C. P. Snow, and those of Robertson Davies; Picasso, Wyeth, and Henry Moore. Quantum mechanics and Goedel's proof; black holes and the 4K background radiation; computers and radar. From Senator Joseph McCarthy to gay rights and the New Left; from hearing this country called "Amerika" to the "God bless America" signs after the WTC attack. What a ride it has been!

      I’m even glad I spent that term and a half at a theological seminary. What a crazy thing for me, of all people, to do! Who could be less fit to be a clergyman than I? It might easily have wrecked my life; it was a classic instance of what I said earlier on about altruism in my life going sour. It was a valuable and enriching experience for all that. I saw, for the first time, an alien culture from close up; I met some remarkable men, I learned some strange ins and outs of Biblical study and early church history, and it was there that I made my first real contact with Hebrew, that lovely language which has never since left me alone. It also brought me from the Middle West to New York, where I belonged.

      I’m glad I turned out to be so good at teaching and that I liked my students and was liked by them. Such wonderful young people, and such fun I had with them! If the commute hadn’t finally worn me down, and if the field of computer science hadn't started to drift in directions that I found uncongenial, I would probably have continued teaching until I dropped. At one point, that was what I hoped to do.

      I’m also grateful for the series of chances that led me to take ballet classes. Not my kind of thing at all, I should have thought. I remember wandering through an unfamiliar building at Hofstra, in the 1980s, trying to find a committee meeting I was supposed to attend, and suddenly walking into a vast, empty room with mirrored walls, a railing along three sides, and a grand piano far off in the distance. My heart skipped a beat: a dance studio, obviously. I was surprised that the sight still meant so much to me, almost a quarter of a century after those first classes. It was as if fate, or something, was telling me that I'd be back taking classes again some day. Why? What was the attraction, for someone like me with zero talent? It wasn't just the pretty girls, I swear. I suppose it was because, on those rare days when everything went well, it felt so good to move that way.

      And I’m grateful for the affection, and even esteem, that I’ve known from so many people. After a childhood and adolescence marked by neither affection nor esteem, except in rare and sporadic instances, this has been very important to me. I thank you, one and all, for that; you've enriched my adult life; you've been terrific to know.

      My last words? Probably some unintelligible croak as I try to speak one final word of love and gratitude to Pat; but my official last words are cribbed from Lytton Strachey, who is supposed to have said, “If this is death, I don’t think much of it.”

      Well, there you are. Not very profound — was it? Indeed, I've hardly addressed the central issue, the issue of being dead. But how can I? I can't comprehend oblivion, much less talk about it. So if I've done nothing but beat around the bush, my excuse is that the bush itself is unreachable.

      Maybe your time would have been better spent reading about those rhinoceroses after all.

Farewell...
Terry Gal

[Jamie Ann]

Terry Gal was a long-time contributor to CD forums, including this one. I find the letter she wrote as she was near death to be touching. My dad passed away in 1998 from lung cancer. He went through radiation treatment, which made him sick, went into remission for a few months, and then the sickness and the pain came back. Like Terry Gal, he decided not to go through further treatment. At the time, I felt devastated. I wanted him to hang on, whatever the costs. But reading Terry Gal's letter helps me to better understand what he was thinking and feeling. The dying person does not want to leave their loved ones behind, but at some point they decide it is time to go. Terry Gal was a wonderful human being, witty and insightful, and she will be truly missed.

[Anita]

Hi Jamie Anne--
I had read the letter before this, but was moved on re-reading it once more. I don't think a person would have to know anything about Terry Gal's background to get something out of that letter, either--I think it is all accessible, right there. That is one of the best summing-ups that I have ever read.

I have posted before on this thought--it does bother me that as the Internet years go on, we will lose close forum and email friends, and we'll never know what happened. All we'll know is--one day they didn't show up, and they never do again. It's very unusual that we heard about Terry Gal, and that also was because someone else (in this case a wife) knew about her CD life, AND cared enough, or was instructed to post this.

At this time, I wouldn't know how to get around this, myself. Even though everyone around me knows Anita, they don't know my Internet life. I have presently been putting my will together, and maybe that is something that I will specify--that a "Terry Gal" letter goes out to selected forums. That makes me feel a little better.
A

[TamaraSegunda]

I've been on line in one form or another for about 17 years, and throughout that time, I've run into my friend Tom Parsons in many far-flung areas of the net. We corresponded intermittently, and I think we both surprised each other when we would encounter each other in a new cyber location. "Terry Gal" was one of a number of Tom's identities, each totally appropriate for whatever venue he happened to be attending.

I read Tom's Valedictory letter on the FictionMania website a short time after he died. I was astonished that so few of those who commented on it knew of him or his writings (his pen name was Princess Pervette).

Anyway, when I stumbled onto this forum a few short weeks ago, one of the things that convinced me to join was seeing some of Terry Gal's old posts. I knew if she liked it here, it must be a worthwhile.

I'm so grateful that his wife took the time to distribute the news of his passing, and his wonderful good-bye message.
......Tamara Segunda

[Virginia]

Terry Gal,
Yes she did post on other sites and I always enjoyed her wit and insight. She was, I think, a pioneer for us, and an ambassador as well, one that we can be proud of.
My feelings are this: Someone once said, "Dying is something we all must do - I only hope I do it well!"
Terry Gal - Honey, You did it well!!!!!
You will be missed.
Virginia

[Kersten Lee]

Good-by Terry Gal,

I shall miss you terribly and can barely see to type now. You were one of my best first friends on CDDF two years back. It seems like a life time ago. I was suffering too much pain to bare and you talked to me with witt, humor and sprinklings of the most valuable advice. You helped convince me to struggle on. I need you to hear me. I am fine and pretty happy these days. I live who I am and enjoy this life like I never have. I too, am responsible for me. I am responsible to respect and love who I am. You can disagree and protest, Terry, but I believe in conservation of being and energy. I know your out there, spirit soaring oh so high! Enjoy!

I will never forget you,
Kersten Lee.