Dear Marion, This may not turn into much of a letter, because its 6:07 a.m. EST, I just returned from taking Klemens, - not Margrit - yet - to the airport, and before I finish, I may get a bit confused, tired or even somnolent. But right now my mind seems clear, and clarity being the virtue I value most highly, I want to write to you while the mind is still alert. As so often, commenting on your two recent, eminently compassionate letters, seems the straightest path to my goal. For the sake of accuracy, I'm quoting your letters in their entirety. > PLEASE > ====== > Dear Jochen, > This morning I spoke at length with Margrit on the phone. > She needs to have a quiet talk with you about the future. > She is planning to do it this evening after supper > and is busy today 'screwing her courage to the sticking point > to get this done. The notion of "a quiet talk about the future" is a fantasy. I love to talk and to deliberate, and "put all the cards on the table." Margrit, on the other hand, usually conceals her plans and tells me about them only at the last moment or after the fact. Such conversations as we have consist in declarations by her about "the Meyer genes", which she possesses and of which she is very proud (a rather remarkable stance for a racial equality crusader), the wonderful friends who are ready to help her, the importance to her of museum and concert visits, how, though not as smart as I, she is in fact very intelligent. Almost any comment I make is rejected with the reproach: "Oh, you're so cynical. Why are you always so negative." Even before I finish the first sentence, she has interrupted me: "Stop, why don't you let me talk." She does not seem to know how to listen. Last evening at supper, there was no "quiet talk about the future", but rather a declaration: these are the arrangements that I have made. This is what I will do. > I am amazed at how difficult this is for her. > She admires and respects you of course, and cares deeply for you, > so the prospect of having to say anything > that would hurt or disappoint you is almost more than she can bear. > Actually it is more than she can bear; > she would prefer to run away and hide. > But I think she's going to get a grip on herself. What is difficult for her is the contradiction within her, which she projects on me. Her problems derive from the circumstance that she is incapable of "caring deeply" for anybody. That is her tragedy. That is why she flits from one "friend" to the next "friend", why she finds fulfillment in impersonal political demonstrations. I don't criticize her; I don't argue, I don't remonstrate with her. It's who I am, that gets to her. It's my relationships to my wife, to my son, to my sister, to my grandchildren, to my cousin whom I haven't seen in 40 years, which are oppressive to my sister, because she is incapable of such relationships. (Goethe wrote: Gegen die grossen Vorzuege eines anderen gibt es kein Rettungsmittel als die Liebe.) It's from me that she wants so desperately to escape, and her tragedy: that she needs me, she can't do without me, and has nowhere else to turn. I'm aware of and sensitive to her anguish. I would like to help her "to run away and hide", but there's the contradiction that in helping her "to run away and hide" I would be preventing her from running away and hiding. If you can untangle that contradiction, you've solved the riddle of the sphinx. > Please, Jochen, do what you can > to make it easier for her to talk to you. The best I can do is to be as inconspicuous and matter of fact as possible. But that may not be enough. > You could email your thesis of dismay to me > (or phone it in to me here in the lab.....612, 624-0685..... > no-one else uses this phone), > so that by the time Margrit talks to you, > the thesis will be out of the way > and you can start right in on the antithesis, > which I hope will be more permissive and encouraging, > less judgemental. It is cruel to be "permissive" with a paraplegic to is about to dance. It is cruel to be "encouraging" a blind person who plans to search the heavens for planets or meteors. To refuse to recognize that the house is ablaze because sounding the alarm is "judgemental" is not merely an invitation to disaster. It is a disaster. It's unavoidable, that unless Margrit is fortunate enough to die suddenly and unexpectedly, she will become dependent on help. At this time, it's my help that Margrit rejects. If you scrutinize her more closely, you will see that Margrit is ultimately incapable of accepting help from anyone, because whoever tried to help her would be limiting her freedom and would soon assume the visage of her parents and perhaps of her brother. If she were realistic in making herself independent of me she would head straight for the Friends' Homes at Guilford, but once there she would be unhappy - as she was at Tuft's Medical Center, because they did not care for her as the special person she is, and she would be unhappy because they cared for her, and she cannot stand being cared for. She needs to be cared for, but she doesn't want to be cared for. > Margrit mentioned how she had agreed to remain > until her course of pills was completed. > When I asked how soon that would be, > she said she needs to go count the pills. When I last stopped by her room, there were laid out on her table twenty tablets of metronidazole, enough to last through December 5th. Since I bought 100 tablets about three weeks ago, I infer she has been taking 4 tablets a day as prescribed. > I warned her to watch out for you creeping into her room > and surreptitiously adding pills to the bottle every few days. > Did I guess your secret? No comment. > > Marion > > I DON'T THINK SO > ================ > Dear Jochen, > Margrit wants to live a life she enjoys, > in which she feels free to do as she pleases, within reason. What's "within reason"? > I don't think she's suicidal, One doesn't have to jump in front of the train to commit suicide, one can do so by crossing the street without looking. > but she's not willing to give up her life of independence > when she doesn't have to. > She is willing to take moderate risks to achieve that but, What is a "moderate" risk? > as you noticed, she's somewhat unsure whether this is the right moment. > I tried to encourage her to give it some time, > that there's no rush, > that whatever she decides to do can be done a few weeks or months hence, > so why rush it. > But the driving force here is that Margrit can't seem to feel at ease > or minimally happy in her current situation. She's unhappy because she can't rush from friend to friend, from demonstration to demonstration, - of course there are "friends" to be had in metropolitan Boston, Quaker Meetings, churches of all kinds, temples, and plenty of political activity. In all this Margrit can't participate not because I stop her, but because she's musculoskeletally, gastroenterologically and neurologically crippled. She can't even walk the 1500 feet to the bus stop. She can't remember where she left her purse. (On the two times Margrit went out by herself, she lost her pocket book. The first time it was found by a high school student, who dutifully showed it to the teacher, who dutifully opened it, found in it a scrawled telephone number, dutifully telephoned me, who immediately appeared at the high school with a $50 reward for the honest student. The second time she left it in one of my cars, but then looked in the blue 2005 Minivan, having forgotten that it was the green 1997 Minivan in which I had fetched her.) Margrit can't remember whether to turn right or left to get to Belmont Center. She forgets what subway, what trolley to take to get to Symphony Hall. She forgets how to get back to Belmont. > She says the only time she can recall feeling so uncomfortable > was when she went home to Konnarock to live with your parents after college. I wasn't there, have only hearsay evidence as to what went on, and trying to reconstruct that phase of Margrit's life would not, I think, be beneficial at this time. > For reasons which I don't fully understand, > Margrit feels as though she's under close scrutiny in Boston, Because in Detroit, among her friends, she lives in a fantasy world. None of her Belmont relatives are critical or judgmental of her, but none share her fantasies. She hides behind her fantasies and in Belmont she does not get the help she needs to sustain them. > even confined. > Why confined? can't walk, can't drive, can't manage public transportation. > Because she wants to go places on her own initiative, > and having you drive her places > (which she recognizes as totally generous and thoughtful of you) > is depressing to her. > The bus stop is too far for her to walk easily. > When I suggested looking into door to door transport for Seniors, > she replied that that would be unseemly in Belmont. It is available, but inconvenient, and she doesn't want help from anyone, not even the Town of Belmont. > Considering what a firm grasp you retain on your own goals, > your singleminded determination to use your lifetime to express yourself, > and imbibe music and poetry that are deeply meaningful to you, > Margrit's unrelenting pursuit of what's meaningful and pleasurable to her > can't come as much of a surprise. The circumstance that Margrit's relentless pursuit is not a surprise doesn't make it achievable. > Meaningful to Margrit are social service, helping others, > on an organizational scale as well as person-to-person privately. > And she's a very social person who basks in the warmth of friendship, > and is responsive to the gratefulness of those she has helped personally. > Why she seems so intimidated around the family I don't know, > at the same time as appreciating you all to the max. She is tortured by feelings of inferiority. > Well, perhaps you're in conversation now, or will be soon. > Marion ============== This is the bottom line=============== According to Goethe, the bottom line is what one does. Goethe spurned theory, and wrote "Am Anfang war die Tat." Aber ach! schon fühl ich, bei dem besten Willen, Befriedigung nicht mehr aus dem Busen quillen. Aber warum muß der Strom so bald versiegen, Und wir wieder im Durste liegen? Davon hab ich so viel Erfahrung. Doch dieser Mangel läßt sich ersetzen, Wir lernen das Überirdische schätzen, Wir sehnen uns nach Offenbarung, Die nirgends würd'ger und schöner brennt Als in dem Neuen Testament. Mich drängt's, den Grundtext aufzuschlagen, Mit redlichem Gefühl einmal Das heilige Original In mein geliebtes Deutsch zu übertragen, (Er schlägt ein Volum auf und schickt sich an.) Geschrieben steht: "Im Anfang war das Wort!" Hier stock ich schon! Wer hilft mir weiter fort? Ich kann das Wort so hoch unmöglich schätzen, Ich muß es anders übersetzen, Wenn ich vom Geiste recht erleuchtet bin. Geschrieben steht: Im Anfang war der Sinn. Bedenke wohl die erste Zeile, Daß deine Feder sich nicht übereile! Ist es der Sinn, der alles wirkt und schafft? Es sollte stehn: Im Anfang war die Kraft! Doch, auch indem ich dieses niederschreibe, Schon warnt mich was, daß ich dabei nicht bleibe. Mir hilft der Geist! Auf einmal seh ich Rat Und schreibe getrost: Im Anfang war die Tat! Faust Im Anfang war die Tat! So, what I going to do? On the way to the airport I told Klemens I thought Margrit's dependent edema was probably from chronic malnutrition, in that her diarrhea impaired protein absorption and that it was hypoalbuminemia created the osmotic imbalance that caused the edema. Klemens agreed. In three hours Jane Mason will take Margrit to Framingham and will bring her back on Thursday, unless I'm summoned to pick Margrit up sooner. The last metranidazole is due on December 5. If she's true to her word, I'll be driving Margrit to the airport - unless she can get Jane to take her - Sunday, December 6, or soon thereafter. On stopping the metranidazole, the diarrhea may get better, may stay the same or may get worse, much worse. She has dragooned Roald Kirby to drive sixty miles to meet her at the airport. She'll change plane in Charlotte. What if the flight from Boston is delayed and she misses the plane? And what if the diarrhea get's really bad a few days after stopping the medication? There is a Bed and Breakfast establishment only 500 feet from the house. Margrit can probably walk that far, but it's uphill. When last she mentioned it, she said she wouldn't stay there, but at a Bed and Breakfast 15 miles away, and have the sons of her deceased friend, Rose Kirby, drive her back and forth to the house in Konnarock. She plans to reject all help from our neighbor Buck Sheets who mows the lawn and from Jeane Walls who takes care of the house for me. On recent visits, Margrit has required 4 or 5 days or more to get her things together. Now having diarrhea she plans to pack in an unheated house without toilet facilities. In the past, she has stowed many of her belongings in the front seat of her Miata. This time she has arranged for someone unknown to me to drive her to Detroit. Her driver, of course will also have a suitcase; Margrit has several suitcases, boxes, bags, and the Miata's trunk capacity is very limited. So what shall I do. Am Anfang war die Tat. As soon as I know the date of Margrit's departure, shall I telephone Jeane and instruct her to have the garage door repaired, so Margrit's car can be driven out, to turn on the water and the heat, even though I know that if the oil burner fails to ignite, and there's a cold night, the pipes will freeze? Shall I ask Margaret to pack, so she and I can drive down to help Margrit get ready, to try to manage the heating system if there's a cold spell, to close the house after Margrit has left, perhaps to trail Margrit all the way to Detroit? I really don't know, and will be grateful to you for any instructions and advice that you are willing to give. Margrit just came in to tell me that Jane Mason will not come at 12 noon today to pick Margrit up, but will come some other day. Margrit had forgotten what that other day was, but had written it down. Jochen