Update on Dad 10-24-11

Hi, All,

Sorry to be slow getting this up this week--another busy Sunday!

I wasn't able to speak with Dad yesterday, so my update today comes from Elouise Bell, Dad's student at the Y and then his colleague (and always his dear friend):

I visited Marshall on Sunday, October 9, just after he had finished the noon meal. The aides were getting him into bed when I arrived. After they left, I went up to him and was beginning to talk, when a look of pain came over his face, he put his hand on his stomach or abdomen, and said, "I've got something wrong here." I asked him if I should call someone. "I don't know who you'd call," he replied. I went around the corner and got an aide, who was very kind and gentle to Marshall, saying, "How are you feeling, Marshall?" "Oh, about the same as usual." "Do you want something for pain--Tylenol or something?" "No, I don't think so." He seemed no longer in pain, and I would guess the problem had been gas. There seemed no further discomfort during my visit.

He looked better than I had anticipated. I had expected him to be very thin, and had thought his face might be drawn and gray. But he seemed sturdier than I'd thought; his face had good color and did not seem drawn; his hands were warm, and he focused on me the entire time, very much "there."

I told him who I was and reminded him of the antics Professor Jack McKendrick and I had got up to in the old days. I said, "You remember Jack, of course." (Not asking but simply stating.) He grinned broadly and said, "Oh yes!" Then I spoke of our hugely inept recorder group that he and Ruth were part of and how our
"practices" were mostly times of listening to Homer Wakefield's stories and trying, over a couple of years, to play the simple tune, "All In A Garden Green." He laughed heartily and said, "Wonderful memories!"

I told other stories--of his falling asleep in the high science lab counter listening to one of us read a paper he'd assigned. He had sat there, legs crossed in lotus position, or close to it, listening, and finally nodding off. When Joan finished reading, he was still asleep. We would not disturb him, either by getting up and leaving or by saying anything to him. So we sat quietly. After about five or ten minutes, he woke, smiled at us, and said, "I wasn't sleeping, just contemplating Joan's paper." Marshall chuckled at that.

I told him how much he had taught me about being a better teacher, not with general advice but by specific example. I told him he had taught me to listen after I had asked a student a question, and I worked at that. Later, students would specifically comment on how they appreciated being listened to so thoughtfully.

I also told him that you and I emailed, and that I had enjoyed the pictures of Jeffrey and Evelyn and kept them on the old pump organ next to the long-ago picture of him.

When I was almost ready to go (I had been holding one or both of his hands throughout), I said I wanted to recite a bit of a sonnet, since he had so generously shared his love and understanding of Shakespeare with us. So I began,

"That time of year thou mayst in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold--"

And then I just went blank, could not remember the next line of this famous poem which I've taught dozens of times. But there was no pause. As soon as Marshall saw the frown on my face which said I couldn't remember the line, he immediately finished in a clear, strong voice, " Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang."

I was flabbergasted and delighted. "Marshall! You remembered that better than I did!" He grinned a sly, pleased smile.

When I got ready to leave (I'd been there perhaps 10 or 15 minutes at most), I kissed him a time or two and then said slowly, "When you see Ruth," then paused and repeated it slowly, "When you see Ruth," and his eyes widened and he seemed to wonder where I might be going with this, "Please tell her Elouise Bell says thanks." Then his eyes narrowed thoughtfully and he gave a small nod. I sincerely believe he knew exactly what I meant.

(He and your mother had been very kind and helpful to me, especially my first two years as a graduate student, newly converted, not knowing many people--they invited me to a holiday dinner and to many evenings at their home and generally made a lonely young student feel there was a place for her at BYU.)

After my delight in his reciting the line from Sonnet 73, what made me happiest was to see the look in his eyes. There seemed to be no confusion, no vagueness, distance, or fatigue--just understanding and interest and warmth. In his eyes I saw exactly the same person I had known since 1957, undiminished as a person. His mind may not have recalled my name or even my face, but his soul absolutely knew that we had been colleagues and friends for a long time and that I cherished him and all he represented.

It was a great privilege and blessing for me to have those minutes with him.

(Thank you, Elouise, for visiting and for writing so eloquently about your visit! I cried when I read about him remembering the line from sonnet 73--his favorite!)

As always, thanks for reading, everyone!