Remember me when I am gone away
Jun. 2nd, 2019 09:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shewhomustIn March we received a letter from an old friend. After a handwritten greeting it continued:
We had remained more or less in touch (though credit for the 'more' goes to him), and knew that he was suffering from Parkinson's disease. But I thought of this as a long-term problem, not knowing that he was also suffering from dystonia (a very unusual combination, apparently. "I have been described as 'fascinating' and 'complicated' by two of the top neurologists in England," says his letter. "This is not good.")
Yesterday we went to Manchester for his memorial.durham_rambler considered offering to speak, and decided against: we couldn't think of any tidy anecdotes to pass on. Was this the right decision? I don't know. As it turned out, although there were several reminiscences from school friends, and tributes from colleagues, no-one spoke about the time we had been closest, when we had been volunteers together in a Welfare Rights group (long ago, before this was a professional field) and he had moved from postgraduate mathematics to study law - and when he had met his (now ex-) wife. Who was also present, so it's not as if this history was lost, just that no-one chose to speak about it.
Instead we had tales of family holidays and gardening and muddy walks, poems (Christina Rossetti, by request) and music. Several people remarked that they had learned of new aspects of someone they knew well; yet much of what I heard sparked memories of things I had known, but forgotten. Which is what you want from a memorial, isn't it?
There were two pieces of music. One was Loudon Wainwright's New Paint, carefully chosen to be as little inappropriate as you could ask of Loudon Wainwright. This was the other:
I am very sorry to say that this letter will bring you sad news...
I am very sorry to tell you that on 21 March 2019 I went to the Dignitas clinic where I died peacefully and painlessly in my sleep...
We had remained more or less in touch (though credit for the 'more' goes to him), and knew that he was suffering from Parkinson's disease. But I thought of this as a long-term problem, not knowing that he was also suffering from dystonia (a very unusual combination, apparently. "I have been described as 'fascinating' and 'complicated' by two of the top neurologists in England," says his letter. "This is not good.")
Yesterday we went to Manchester for his memorial.
durham_rambler considered offering to speak, and decided against: we couldn't think of any tidy anecdotes to pass on. Was this the right decision? I don't know. As it turned out, although there were several reminiscences from school friends, and tributes from colleagues, no-one spoke about the time we had been closest, when we had been volunteers together in a Welfare Rights group (long ago, before this was a professional field) and he had moved from postgraduate mathematics to study law - and when he had met his (now ex-) wife. Who was also present, so it's not as if this history was lost, just that no-one chose to speak about it.Instead we had tales of family holidays and gardening and muddy walks, poems (Christina Rossetti, by request) and music. Several people remarked that they had learned of new aspects of someone they knew well; yet much of what I heard sparked memories of things I had known, but forgotten. Which is what you want from a memorial, isn't it?
There were two pieces of music. One was Loudon Wainwright's New Paint, carefully chosen to be as little inappropriate as you could ask of Loudon Wainwright. This was the other:
