Thread by @drdagly

Story time. I hope this isn’t too maudlin, but in the time of COVID, this seems to be the way we eulogize. Today I found out that my elementary guidance councillor died. It should have come as no surprise as he was also one of my patients.

I called his wife to express my condolences, but really it was to grieve over the phone with her. You see, this man was remarkable for so many reasons. Of course he was an amazing teacher, but he was also a force of nature.

I struggled in school. Our family moved around a lot because of my dad, & when we finally settled down, it was because of my dad. He got sick. My mom protected us, shielding us from the diagnosis. As a kid, normal is what you do every day. So I never clued in. Maybe intentionally

Ed had a natural affable smile. He knew how to read someone from a thousand yards. The man could build bridges over the most troubled waters. He did while most never noticed. That how he would get around your defences. The man was a rough cut empath.

I never knew he was helping me, he was just there for me. His mentorship was glacial, subtly and irrevocably nudging me in the right direction just by being there. He was the foothold that was always there no matter how slippery the rock face.

And like most dumb kids, I never appreciated it. I just took it for granted, as a seed takes in water. But with that rooting, and that gnarled momentum, I was good, no better than that, I was solid and motivated. And in the blink of an eye, 30 years passed.

He showed up in my office without an appointment.
“Look Ed, I can’t see you, we have a relationship, but I can refer you to someone else.”
“Balderdash”
“Sorry?”
“I won’t see anyone else, It’s you or the funeral director.”
“Your not that sick.”
“Last chance.”
“But”
“...”
“Fine”

It’s hard to switch roles, and to now provide the guidance to your hero. I struggled a lot with this early in our new relationship, but Ed was as practical as he was blunt. He asked good questions and called me out when I was vague. Our appointments always ran late.

Over the ensuing years, we worked out the best solutions we could with what we had to work with. Neither of us would pander to unrealistic expectations. He took a special joy in playing mind games with my staff. One appointment he spoke only in iambic pentameter.

But as time went by he became more frail. His hands shook, and we had to speak of serious things. As always, he would lead the charge.
“I am pretty sure I don’t want dialysis.”
“You don’t really know that much about it, give me a chance to go through it with you.”

In the end he gave it a try, but it wasn’t for him. His wife, who had been with him to every appointment, told me about his last days. I struggled, wondering if I could be brave enough to make the same choices they did. To grasp and control his coming death. It gutted me.

On the phone that day, it was she who consoled me.
“Ed didn’t care if you were the best kidney doc out there. He just knew that you would be there for him. He had a lot of doctors looking out for him but they came and went. He just needed a sounding board.”

So, here’s to the teacher who stays late, the councillors who reach out, the aunt who steps up, the boss who reaches out. Here’s to the allies who give us a firm step and solid hand hold, for though they may never know it, those acts of kindness matter. Immeasurably.

And now, when we are all so vulnerable I share this knowing that those of you who unwaveringly step forward to do the right thing when no one else is looking, will be rewarded. Especially if you do it in iambic pentameter. 🙂

Also, he was an accomplished stained glass artist. His tremor bothered him most as it made it hard for him to work. He gave me one of his last pieces. It took him ages to solder but he was determined. He dropped it off unceremoniously.
“Don’t break it, I’m not making any more!”