first on CBC Radio on February 27, 2000, and later included in
More Writers and Company
. What Carol had so openly said in that interview about living with cancer must have got through to Elma in some personal way, binding her yet more closely to Carol.
Carol had admitted to Eleanor she could hardly breathe from the shock she had felt at first, and how an air of unreality had accompanied the shock. She had “very naively thought [she] was not the breast cancer type;” but recognizing that she “couldn’t turn it back,” she had gone on to accept it, surprised at how good people were to her, even as she had to face some loss of her self-sovereignty. To be in touch with others, however, had been extremely helpful: she “needed so badly the experience of other people so that you don’t feel so alone in that sorrow.” In order to enlarge her world, she read more novels than shewas in the habit of doing, and hoped to find some that were funny, because “life is very rich in comedy.”
Carol looked for the same thing that Charles Darwin looked for when he got members of his family to read a novel to him in the afternoon, after he had done his scientific work in the morning, in the hope of finding a person he could love. Carol herself needed to escape the terrible introspection that accompanied any diagnosis of cancer. She could now see it as “a natural rhythm in your life,” though it also made her “more conscious of mortality.”
No wonder Eleanor Wachtel spoke later of Carol’s “particular kind of humanity … the foundation of her commitment to writing as a form of redemption.” And no wonder Carol and Elma had bonded as they did.
The happiness I had urged upon Elma was all too soon turned into something more like resignation when, just three days before Christmas, she wrote to tell Carol and me of the death from cancer of one of their mutual friends in Winnipeg.
Dear A.,
This is about the death yesterday of our friend Lynn McLean, who battled incredibly heroically for about fifteen years against what began as breast cancer. Her remissions and reprieves were simply off any known medical charts, but she had many other problems which developed over the years. She was ultimately on home dialysis, and during the last year had suffered from a terrible clinical depression. Her husband, Murdith, who teaches with Martin in the philosophy department, is, of course, anguished, but I think it will be a relief, ultimately, as it will be for her two children, and the grandchildren whose Nana, as they knew her, had all but vanished.
Ever … ever … ever …
E.
Dear Carol,
Murdith phoned us this morning, and he said he was going to e-mail you. He sounded very accepting, and he probably told you that the whole family was able to be there at theend, at the Palliative Care Ward at St. Boniface, when she just quietly stopped breathing.
I am very glad she is finally at peace, after these last months especially. There is nothing more to say, really.
But the circle somehow seems to stay unbroken.
Much love, Elma
Dear Elma,
Yes, the circle does seem unbroken. I’ve relived a series of memories since hearing from you, once dropping in on Lynn and Murdith in the evening. She was rather sleepy, and said, “Murdith was just brushing my hair.” What an amazing image. It has been such a long struggle, and I half-know what people mean when they say ‘being at peace.’
much love,
c.
Christmas in Sackville that year for Alasdair and me happened to be quieter than usual, without house guests, and I sent two lines on Christmas Eve to let Elma know I was thinking of her. When we held our traditional Boxing Day lunch for a number of friends, first singing carols around the piano, drinking rum eggnog, and then eating Bermuda cassava pie—a native dish introduced from the West Indies, with a filling of chicken and veal contained in a sweet and nutmeg-spicy pudding-like crust made from the grated root of cassava—I
More Writers and Company
. What Carol had so openly said in that interview about living with cancer must have got through to Elma in some personal way, binding her yet more closely to Carol.
Carol had admitted to Eleanor she could hardly breathe from the shock she had felt at first, and how an air of unreality had accompanied the shock. She had “very naively thought [she] was not the breast cancer type;” but recognizing that she “couldn’t turn it back,” she had gone on to accept it, surprised at how good people were to her, even as she had to face some loss of her self-sovereignty. To be in touch with others, however, had been extremely helpful: she “needed so badly the experience of other people so that you don’t feel so alone in that sorrow.” In order to enlarge her world, she read more novels than shewas in the habit of doing, and hoped to find some that were funny, because “life is very rich in comedy.”
Carol looked for the same thing that Charles Darwin looked for when he got members of his family to read a novel to him in the afternoon, after he had done his scientific work in the morning, in the hope of finding a person he could love. Carol herself needed to escape the terrible introspection that accompanied any diagnosis of cancer. She could now see it as “a natural rhythm in your life,” though it also made her “more conscious of mortality.”
No wonder Eleanor Wachtel spoke later of Carol’s “particular kind of humanity … the foundation of her commitment to writing as a form of redemption.” And no wonder Carol and Elma had bonded as they did.
The happiness I had urged upon Elma was all too soon turned into something more like resignation when, just three days before Christmas, she wrote to tell Carol and me of the death from cancer of one of their mutual friends in Winnipeg.
Dear A.,
This is about the death yesterday of our friend Lynn McLean, who battled incredibly heroically for about fifteen years against what began as breast cancer. Her remissions and reprieves were simply off any known medical charts, but she had many other problems which developed over the years. She was ultimately on home dialysis, and during the last year had suffered from a terrible clinical depression. Her husband, Murdith, who teaches with Martin in the philosophy department, is, of course, anguished, but I think it will be a relief, ultimately, as it will be for her two children, and the grandchildren whose Nana, as they knew her, had all but vanished.
Ever … ever … ever …
E.
Dear Carol,
Murdith phoned us this morning, and he said he was going to e-mail you. He sounded very accepting, and he probably told you that the whole family was able to be there at theend, at the Palliative Care Ward at St. Boniface, when she just quietly stopped breathing.
I am very glad she is finally at peace, after these last months especially. There is nothing more to say, really.
But the circle somehow seems to stay unbroken.
Much love, Elma
Dear Elma,
Yes, the circle does seem unbroken. I’ve relived a series of memories since hearing from you, once dropping in on Lynn and Murdith in the evening. She was rather sleepy, and said, “Murdith was just brushing my hair.” What an amazing image. It has been such a long struggle, and I half-know what people mean when they say ‘being at peace.’
much love,
c.
Christmas in Sackville that year for Alasdair and me happened to be quieter than usual, without house guests, and I sent two lines on Christmas Eve to let Elma know I was thinking of her. When we held our traditional Boxing Day lunch for a number of friends, first singing carols around the piano, drinking rum eggnog, and then eating Bermuda cassava pie—a native dish introduced from the West Indies, with a filling of chicken and veal contained in a sweet and nutmeg-spicy pudding-like crust made from the grated root of cassava—I
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