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Back home in his precious woodlands, Jack began his recovery. Between
endless rounds of chemotherapy he planted a garden, walked the hills,
fished, baked bread, carved gunstocks, and made elegant wooden chests
for his children. He supplied us all with jars of home-canned pickles,
peppers, and home-made sauerkraut. He drove logging trails looking for
trees overrun by wild grape vines. He would lasso the tops of the trees,
tie the rope to the bumper of his truck, and bend the trees down to fill
bushel baskets with the sweet tiny grapes which he distilled in to succulent
wine. He savored every second of his life.
When I visited him at Christmas time it was impossible to imagine there
was a thing wrong with him. He looked wonderful - thinner, but just as
handsome as always. “Not bad for a dead man,” he joked.
For awhile it was possible to believe that he could heal himself through
a sheer act of will.
In the fall of 2001 the doctors said the chemo had reduced the tumors
in his lungs as much as possible - they had to operate. He went back to
the hospital. The medical personnel were flabbergasted that the man who
spent all those weeks in a coma was still alive. “I’ve never
seen anything like him,” one doctor said.
The operation was successful and Jack went home. But cancer - once it
has taken hold - is relentless. More tumors grew. One of the things you
learn, when the miracles seem to have been all used up, is how bottomless
the desire in your heart is. All of us devoutly believed that another
miracle was on its way. All of us cherished the notion that if he could
just feel how much we loved him - how very much we wanted to keep him
with us; how precious and dear his presence was - his endless, gargantuan
strength would squeeze out the bad cells and heal what ultimately could
not be healed. We tried to love him back to health.
In June 2002 - two years and two months after we were told he probably
would never leave the hospital - his lungs were worn out. He was allowed
to leave the hospital one last time to go home with his wife to their
house surrounded by wooded hills and a bubbling stream. Early the next
morning Jack - incredible, brave, powerful Jack, the strongest man I’ve
ever known - left this world.
I have not one doubt in my mind that he is in a better place - a deep,
lush, fragrant forest vibrant with wildlife. He was a man born out of
time, meant for a world where virtue and craftsmanship and deep, personal
integrity were revered. He was given to us as a model of life well-lived
and of time well-used.
Jack never lost his humor or his optimism. A few weeks before his death
when asked how he was doing he replied, “Great - except for this
damned cancer.” He taught us how to be graceful in letting go.
We humans reverence life and try to find meaning in death. But ultimately
the only thing one can come to is the oldest truth in the world —
everyone dies. The lucky ones live long and die fast.
Accepting Jack’s death - the death of someone so incredible - has
been a gut-wrenching process. It’s not fair. It’s not right.
It is an outrage against the passion by which we humans are made so beautiful.
I don’t know if it is possible to accept such a thing. But in my
heart I also understand that if there is anything to grasp through all
this pain, the meaning of Jack’s life and death is NOT the tragedy
of his loss - but the indescribable miracle that such a glorious man ever
lived at all.
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