You Talk and I’ll Listen

It won’t be the same, I say, not being able to hear you talk. “Ah, talk . . . ” He closes his eyes and smiles. “Tell you what. After I’m dead, you talk. And I’ll listen.” – Tuesdays with Morrie, Mitch Albom

Many know Tuesdays with Morrie. We followed Mitch’s sports writing and social commentary in the Detroit Free Press for years. Maybe that made his memoir so approachable even though he shared something so serious, his talks with a beloved professor who had a terminal illness.

Time really can be divided into before and after. Before, I walked with colleagues to lunch. Doug traveled to Viet Nam for work. His general practitioner told him to come home and see a gastroenterologist. He called, I walked back to the office instead of going to lunch, and drove home.  

He did not say if he was worried. Neither of us said cancer. But on that drive home, I clutched the steering wheel and prayed for it not to be, afraid. The fear never really left. It kept uneasy company as we waited for the colonoscopy, sat the oncologist’s office, and drove to chemo appointments, lurking under the guise keeping things together.

Doug kept working. He cooked his typical Thanksgiving feast and hung award-winning Christmas lights. He watched Michigan basketball games and played Sorry and did the New York Times crossword. Winter turned to spring. If he were afraid, he did not say. No matter the obstacle, he never doubted we would find a path.

One night before his last hospital stay, we watched HBO and ate fun-size candy bars. I pushed nutritional shakes, but candy bars won. I wanted so badly to ask him if he were afraid. We both knew the answer, and maybe we were both trying to be normal and strong and hopeful despite the fear.

I miss those fun-size candy bars, and listening to him talk. When I talk to him, I hope he is listening, because I tell him now what was hard to find words for then.