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The sense of an ending

OK, so this is the fourth post I’ve put up today (and I’ve updated and revised it a few times, too).  A new record for this blog—an unprecedented flurry of things in the past thirty hours, and not one of them—not Theory Tuesday IV on Althusser, not the Invasion of the Marriage Disaster Flicks, not my visit to the dentist, and not my tribute to the English department’s softball team—has a damn thing to do with the state of the nation.  Once upon a time, this was a mostly political blog, specializing in bitterness, incredulity, and over-the-top satire.  Now you can hardly find a passing mention of Karl Rove, Judy Miller, or Robert Novak around here. 

But over the past few months I’ve been seriously rethinking the parameters of what this blog can and cannot say.  It has not escaped my notice that there’s a fairly clear distinction between “raw” blogs and “cooked” blogs: the former offer to-the-moment musings on the lives and times of their authors (The Chronicles of Dr. Crazy, for example), and the latter present a clear surface, a finished product that betrays nothing about their authors’ lives or its vicissitudes (Tom Burka’s brilliant and brilliantly-named Opinions You Should Have, for example).  Most blogs fall in between, and blogs like these seem to me to have negotiated the demands of the raw and the cooked most appealingly and impressively over the past year.

I’m well aware that I’ve leavened this blog now and then with a few immediate-family stories, most of which have to do with Jamie—partly because people keep asking about him, for good reason, and partly because he loves to see himself up on the Internets, also for good reason.  But I’ve tried to keep most of my personal life out of this.  I’ve even tried to keep most of my professional life out of this: while I’ll comment on Horowitzian initiatives in state legislatures and MLA resolutions, I won’t talk about most of my daily professorial routine here.  In fact, for a long time last year I was reluctant to deal with anything relating to my day job—so much so that it simply never occurred to me that I could use the blog for things like Theory Tuesdays and extended responses to Thomas Frank’s What’s the Matter with Kansas?

And until recently, I would never have thought of writing anything about the EFF (extended family and friends) in this space—at least not in a serious way.  Two weeks ago, however, a dear friend of ours, Jimmy Crofts, died at the age of 48 after a long and utterly inexplicable illness.  He was married to Gail Corbin, who’s been Janet’s best friend since toddlerhood.  Gail and Jimmy’s marriage was complexly intertwined with ours, even during the twelve years Janet and I lived in Illinois and saw the Connecticut crew only once or twice a year, and even though most of Jimmy’s family still lives in Ireland.  Janet traveled to Dublin to attend Jimmy and Gail’s wedding on New Year’s Eve 1983; she and I had met but three months before.  Jimmy and Gail moved to New Haven shortly thereafter.  Gail is basically the fifth Lyon Sister (after Cynthia, Barbara, Janet and Todd), just as Mal Evans was the fifth Beatle, and Jimmy’s large family is almost the mirror image of Janet’s: the Lyon brood consists of four charismatic daughters and one charming son, and the Crofts clan consists of four charismatic sons and one charming daughter.  Not that Jimmy lacked for charm; quite the contrary.  He was stunningly handsome (Aidan Quinn, twenty years ago, was a pale approximation), multiply talented, impossibly witty, and unfailingly kind.  And Gail:  Gail is just incandescent—a passionate dancer (in the Doris Humphreys mode), a keen and wry wit, an exhilarating interlocutor.  The two of them seemed perfectly matched.

Jimmy and Gail had two children, right around the time that Janet and I had two children: their Brendan is 17, our Nick is 19; their Anna turns 14 in November, our Jamie turns 14 in September.  We all went through the stages of postmodern childrearing in the industrialized West at the same time, marking our offspring’s baffling attachments to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, pogs, Nintendo 64, taekwondo, baseball, and stuffed animals.  We debated Barney the Dinosaur: unmitigated evil, or post-post-parodic scourge?  We felt very strongly both ways.

Then late last summer, we heard that Jimmy had fallen ill: his white blood count had plunged precipitously, and no one knew why.  He was hospitalized late last fall.  And ten months after the initial onset of this mysterious disease, no one knows what it is or where it came from.  Not Gail, not us, not the head of oncology at Yale-New Haven.  No one.

The last time I saw Jimmy, Janet and I were visiting him in Yale-New Haven hospital just before Christmas.  Though Jimmy was barely able to walk, he and his brother Martin were bantering hilariously about the novels he’d been sent to keep him “occupied” during his hospitalization: someone had given him Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons and The Da Vinci Code, apparently unaware that the Crofts family is ridiculously well-read, having memorized most of everything from Spenser to Flann O’Brien, and Jimmy and Martin had us howling about the Dan Brown Howlers.  At one point the two brothers decided that the books were so bad that, on some level, they were aware of how bad they were, and had to be watched lest they slip off the shelf, wander into the back yard, and shoot themselves.

But the last time I saw Jimmy outside a hospital was at the funeral for Janet’s father on November 6 of last year.  Janet’s father, Bradford B. Lyon, died on October 14 at the age of 83.  He had been very ill for two or three years: there was lung cancer, and lupus, and his incomplete recovery from knee-replacement surgery.  He was doing his best to manage his pacemaker/defibrillator.  His hands, his legs, all his joints were out of joint—and this in a man who swam daily, skiied capably, and rode his bicycle well into his late 70s.

Brad was very much like Jimmy: not quite so quick a wit, mind you (for who could be so quick as Jimmy Crofts?), but every bit as charming and industrious and gracious.  He flirted with death for most of last summer; though I had the good fortune to walk and talk with him alone for an hour along the southern Connecticut shoreline in May, I saw him only twice more before he died, and on neither occasion was he able to communicate verbally (though he did laugh noiselessly in his hospital bed when I told him I would not jump on his daughter Cynthia’s trampoline because you can’t get me into one of those chicken outfits).  Janet left for New Haven four times last summer, each time for a week, each time thinking that it would be her last chance to see her father; and yet each time he rallied.  Finally, in mid-semester last fall, Janet and I decided that it would be a good idea for her to drive to her parents’ house to see her father midweek.  Against all odds, he had rallied from his summer’s many trials, to the point at which he was able to live at home (with ramps, and with much assistance from remarkable caregivers): to this day the family refers to this as his victory lap.

Bradford Lyon died while Janet was visiting him, on that early Thursday morning in mid-October.  He died quietly while Janet was attending to him, ushering him into whatever awaits us when we pass.

Yet I did not grieve about Brad, even as his family walked with him through the valley of incipient death, back and forth, all summer long in the long summer of 2004.  I was the Voice of Cold, Clear Reason.  I pointed out that he had led a full and satisfying life: he had watched his children grow up, he had met his grandchildren, and he had fought off a series of very grievous illnesses before going gently into that good night, overseen by his devoted daughter. 

His funeral was attended by about 150 people who loved him, all of whom testified to his exuberance and his generosity and his truly indiscriminate (and therefore often regrettable) sense of humor.  I missed his presence at that funeral—he would have enlivened the proceedings immeasurably, so to speak—and I miss him today.  But as I mourn his death, I do not mourn the mode of his passing.  Instead, I ask this: let all of us die as peaceably and as gracefully as Bradford Lyon did in the early hours of October 14, 2004.

Jimmy Crofts’ death was, and is, quite another thing.  And his funeral, this past Friday, August 5, was almost an affair of state: held at St. Mary’s Church in downtown New Haven, it drew about 400 people—all the people Jimmy’s life had touched, all the Lyon and Crofts families, dozens of people from the Wilton, Connecticut school district in which Jimmy had worked since 1994, and a number of Wilton policemen and firefighters in their ceremonial dress blues on a 95-degree day.  At Gail’s request, Janet delivered the eulogy, and I don’t believe I have witnessed a more moving or brilliant five-minute address in my life.  The eulogy spoke to Jimmy’s mother and siblings; it spoke to his children; it spoke to people who’d worked beside him for years, and it spoke to people who’d known him for an all-too-short lifetime.  It seemed that almost all of those people came up to thank Janet, one by one, as the mass ended and we filed out of the church.  The sound of the piper, as the pallbearers loaded the casket into the hearse, shredded everyone within listening range.  And I thought to myself:  it is for such occasions as this that this instrument was invented.  I cannot imagine anything more plaintive or evocative.  And then I stopped thinking, and silently watched the hearse drive away.

We all made our way to the Playwright, an Irish pub that Jimmy and Gail had regarded as their local for lo these many years.  The air was an extraordinary mix of gravitas and levity and then more gravitas.  But underlying the myriad busy-nesses of the day was the insistent reminder: this doesn’t make any goddamn sense, not a bit of sense at all.

I do not know how to represent such a thing on a blog.  If you go back and look at my archives from May to October 2004 (no, don’t bother—just take my word for it), you won’t find a single mention of Janet’s father or her summer-long waves of grief and anxiety: back then, I thought that blogs—or, at least, blogs like mine—were not capable of dealing with such things.  Better that they serve as vehicles for snarky political commentary and bitter satire, I thought.  But over these past two weeks, as Janet and I talked about Jimmy’s death and Jimmy’s wife and children, she told me that it was jarring, ten or twelve months ago, to come upon my blog and find here no acknowledgment whatsoever of what we were all experiencing about her father.  “Well,” I replied, “I guess I thought of the blog as a world apart from that kind of life, and that kind of emotional complexity.” Janet understood.  But still, she said, it was weird to see that severe a disparity between the Erving Goffman front stage and the Erving Goffman back stage.  That’s what blogs try to calibrate, in their bloggy way: some are mostly front stage, some are mostly back stage.  Most of us try to strike some balance between the two.  And until two weeks ago, I would never have dreamed of putting up this post.  But the untimely and unfathomable death of a friend, in its brutal finality, provokes every kind of introspection and retrospection, about his life and about ours, especially since his has been so intertwined with ours.  My apologies, then, to those of you whose expectations I have traduced in this post, and also to those of you who might have wondered why I’ve never posted anything quite like this until now.

I’ll leave you with the words of Frank Kermode’s The Sense of an Ending, because I cannot improve on them:

Men, like poets, rush “into the middest,” in medias res, when they are born; they also die in mediis rebus, and to make sense of their span they need fictive concords with origins and ends, such as give meaning to lives and to poems.  The End they imagine will reflect their irreducibly intermediary preoccupations.  They fear it, and as far as we can see have always done so; the End is a figure for their own deaths.

The ends of our lives will recast everything that has gone before; we will never discover how it all turns out until it all turns out, which, as Kermode says, is one reason we tell ourselves stories that begin in genesis and end in revelation.  But in the meantime between now and the End we imagine, I offer this post in memory of Jimmy Crofts and Brad Lyon.

I’ll be back on August 22 or 23.

Posted by on 08/10 at 11:35 PM
  1. Sorry for your loss.

    Posted by  on  08/11  at  04:37 AM
  2. It’s harder to write about what you feel than about what you think when you don’t know who’s reading it.

    I’m really sorry for your losses.

    Posted by julia  on  08/11  at  08:18 AM
  3. A stunning tribute, Michael. My best to your families.

    Posted by Chris Clarke  on  08/11  at  10:50 AM
  4. This is an amazing and moving post.
    I am extremely sorry for your losses.
    Have a great vacation
    In terms of being moved, this tribute is up there with the Jamie/Beatles posting.

    Posted by  on  08/11  at  10:58 AM
  5. How to respond, without sounding trite? Impossible not to share your pain (and Janet’s) after reading this oh so human post. Language and pain are what we all have in common - your blog is a haven for those who try to understand both, it is always a privilege when you share with us.

    Posted by  on  08/11  at  11:09 AM
  6. I agree with ana, on attempting to not sound trite.  So, my sympathies.

    Posted by  on  08/11  at  11:12 AM
  7. I know what you mean re: front- and back-stage blogs; one that I visit has devolved of late (in my view) from nearly all political commentary to nearly all kid pictures. But the sense of a person, a life, is central to my response to just about any text—novel, poem, certainly essay. I don’t know your dear friends, and I don’t know you, but you’ve offered a sense of both and a window on my own loved ones. Universe in a grain of sand, as the mad Englishman said.

    I’ve often admired your writing but rarely as much as now. Thanks for this.

    Posted by  on  08/11  at  11:43 AM
  8. I just wanted to take a moment away from my “al dente” blogging to thank you for writing this.

    Posted by Roxanne  on  08/11  at  11:54 AM
  9. Michael,

    I’m so sorry—my heart goes out to the family and friends of Mr. Crofts.  How terrible a loss!

    As a writer, as a public figure, you create the character of yourself, and of your family and friends, and you become as a friend to us, your readers, and we care about you and your life, and so even though we’ve never met, your story brings tears to my eyes.  That’s what writing does, at best; blogging feels more intimate than books or magazines or newspapers, because it’s unfiltered, unedited, it’s whatever the heck the blogger wants it to be; and you’ve even answered emails from me, graciously, so I can even imagine we’re “keyboard pals.”

    Because the blog is whatever the blogger wants it to be you have ZERO need to apologize for writing or not writing whatever you have chosen.  It is courteous to say, before taking a break, that you are taking a break, lest we your readers worry about you, but other than that courtesy, which you keep, it’s yours, man, and what you have done has been at times hilarious and at times deeply moving, and I’m grateful for your wit & your heart & your skill in conveying both, and I’m sorry for your irredeemable, irrevocable loss.

    That Byron poem—it’s about romantic heartbreak, so we’ll have to alter the context—but it has a phrase that says more than all these silly words I’ve been typing, so I’ll close with --

    Silence and tears.

    Posted by John S.  on  08/11  at  12:20 PM
  10. Very well done, sir.

    Posted by  on  08/11  at  12:33 PM
  11. This is beautiful ... it gives us a picture of people we didn’t know, one which honors their lives and your memories, tells us something we didn’t know, something that is worth knowing. In that, it isn’t really all that different from other things you write about on this blog.

    Posted by Steven Rubio  on  08/11  at  12:37 PM
  12. I’m sorry for your trouble.

    Posted by  on  08/11  at  01:51 PM
  13. Damn words--never enough and all we have.

    All condolences, Michael, to you and yours.

    Posted by George  on  08/11  at  02:33 PM
  14. What everyone else said. That was a loving and beautiful tribute to some fine people I wish I’d met. Thank you for sharing, in the midst of your loss/es.  I’m sorry.

    Posted by  on  08/11  at  03:09 PM
  15. May we all be blessed with such devoted and eloquent friends. Thanks for a truly moving post, Michael, and have a wonderful break.

    Posted by  on  08/11  at  04:04 PM
  16. Truly, you were blessed to have them; and they were blessed to have you.

    Posted by  on  08/11  at  04:18 PM
  17. That was a beautiful post, and I am so, so sorry.  In the end, our friends and families are what we have in the world, and losing any one of them hurts, terribly.  My deepest condolences to you and yours.

    Posted by bitchphd  on  08/11  at  06:58 PM
  18. Wow.  Thanks for sharing.  My deepest sympathies, really.

    Posted by  on  08/11  at  10:56 PM
  19. I am so sorry for your loss.  And this was a beautiful post.

    Posted by Dr. Crazy  on  08/12  at  01:05 PM
  20. Thank-you Michael. I’m moved beyond words. And as grateful. I think most of your readers are probably “blessed” with exactly those same kinds of remarkable friends and relatives, who draw from us our own best, and your thoughts in memory of Jimmy Crofts and Brad Lyon brought the ones I’ve lost fully alive to me again.

    What everyone else said, too.

    Like Abby, my deepest sympathies, really, are with you and yours.

    Posted by Leah A  on  08/12  at  01:14 PM
  21. What a beautiful tribute to your cherished friend. I’m so sorry you lost such an important member of your EFF circle. I think we all regret that we never crossed paths with the tremendous Jimmy Crofts.

    Posted by Orange  on  08/12  at  08:30 PM
  22. Better to have loved and lost then to never have loved at all.  Your tapestry of life is so rich and fortunate I can almost hear it as you describe the celebration of births, lives and ultimately, their passing.  Thanks Michael.

    Posted by  on  08/14  at  02:49 PM
  23. Catching up on blogs this day after catching up on much work, having lost a week to the dying of 83-year-old Earl and presiding at his funeral on August 5, I am caught by your words and your grief. Grieving is well done when shared with friends. Not a bit of sense to dying at all. We just get used to it, never get over it; so little old ladies have taught me. Blessings to you, Michael, and to your family and friends.

    Posted by  on  08/14  at  07:48 PM
  24. I’m so sorry. I know what you’re going through, having lost a friend, let’s see, three years ago now, at too young an age. Colon cancer sucks.

    At the time, as a writer, I wondered where the words were to express what I felt. I’m glad Janet found them.

    Posted by KathyF  on  08/15  at  06:12 PM
  25. Been away a week, and just getting around to catching up. My condolences on your loss. What a beautiful post. That’s what I like about this blog. I’ve never met Michael, or his family, or any who post on this site. And it’s likely I never will. But we laugh, we cry, we get angry at the stupidities of those “in charge”, and we’ve become a family. I hope that’s not too mawkish, but it’s how I feel.

    Posted by  on  08/16  at  04:41 PM
  26. My condolences to you and Janet. Your tribute was utterly beautiful and profound. Hope you found some solace in writing it.

    Posted by  on  08/18  at  06:01 PM
  27. Very nice

    Posted by Milen  on  09/01  at  07:13 PM





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