“HI, I’M CAROLYN ELLIS, a first-year graduate student here.”

Revealing his weakness for women—especially young ones, Gene looks up with a gleam in his eye. “Oh, you did come. Ed told me about you.” Wondering if it was my intellectual ability he had heard about from my former professor at William and Mary, I reply, “He told me about you too. So did Gina.”

“Ab, yes, Gina,” Gene says wistfully.

“But they didn’t tell me you were so good-looking,” I continue, ignoring his response to Gina, to whom I knew he had been engaged, and displaying openness to more...

“I WON’T HAVE TIME to see you during the meeting,” Gene announces. “I’ll be busy with old friends.” The meeting he referred to was the annual American Sociological Association conference, which provided an occasion for sociologists to give papers, talk about their research, and renew friendships.

Since Gene and 1 had been seeing each other every night for several months, his proclamation surprised me. At first, I rationalized that our relationship wasn’t going to work anyway; I didn’t want a long-term relationship with a sick person. That I was free to see other people, however, failed to cheer me. Why...

PERIODICALLY, WHEN WE felt overwhelmed by disease, we set aside weekends to deal with Gene’s deterioration and impending death. Gene took additional steroids, though they increased the rate of deterioration of his muscles, upset his stomach, and caused other less visible, long-term side effects. Our decision to meet short-term needs with long-term costs scared us but gave Gene a sense of strength. For a while, we did not have to deal with the worst effects of the disease—the clumping and severe shortness of breath. For Gene, the process was one of rational, conscious acceptance of his deteriorating health. Pure...

GENE WAS ASKED in 1980 to apply for ajob in California as chair of a department. “I have a good chance oflanding it,” he tells me.

“This might solve our dual-career problems.”

“Yes, California would give you a better job market than New York.”

“And I could work part-time there while I finish my dissertation. I could pursue my career and yet we could be together.”

“So why the frown?”

“I just don’t want to be in a situation where it’s assumed I got a job because I was the chair’s girlfriend.”

“So you’ll try for a job at another...

NOW IT WOULD be happening, a few seconds after takeoff. There is the bridge the plane hit. Here is how his head snapped forward. Boom. I let my head fall into the seat in front of me. The vivid picture ofthe gash in Rex’s head helps me reenact the scene.

I am flying back from attending the funeral of my younger brother in my hometown of Luray, Virginia (see Ellis 1993). Rex died in a commercial airplane crash on his way to visit me on January 13,1982. Death now is even more the enemy. It isn’t just happening to Gene;...

“SINCE GENE is retiring,” a student announces during the Sociology Department Christmas party at the end of the semester, “we have collected poetry from his friends.” “Retiring”—the word jolts me.

Written in calligraphy on beautiful, large sheets of parchment paper, the poems were funny, full of love and multiple meanings, and portrayed Gene as a kind and caring intellectual. One read:

Once ego and alter, they met for a chat

They talked about this, they talked about that.

The problem they had concerned what to do

This damned Ph.D. program, could they really get through?

They spoke of their...

“GENE, IT HAS a downstairs bedroom,” I yell excitedly.

“We’ll take it,” Gene says on his way through the front door. What a change from his previous reluctant attitude. We had found the perfect house—a modern, angular, two-story with cathedral ceiling and fireplace, in our price range, and only two miles from the university.

Later, around the kitchen table, Gene says, “Buying a house is a big move. Can I trust you?”

“We’re still together, aren’t we? And, you know I care about you?” When he says he feels it, I ask playfully, “So what other evidence do you...

“I BARELY MADE IT through the proposal hearing,” Gene tells me, sadly, when I phone him after three days apart.

“Let’s talk about why you might be feeling so poorly,” I offer. “Maybe there’s something you can do. You’re doing a lot physically?”

When he acknowledges that this is the price of staying alone, I tentatively suggest, “Maybe you should get help.”

“There is mold in the house.”

“Maybe you should move to another location.”

“I don’t want to impose on anyone. I feel dizzy, my head is swimming.”

Tension fills my body and I want to believe Gene is...

“HI, BABY,” Gene says cheerfully as he gets out of his van and grabs the oxygen cannula 1 bring to him. Mter a quick embrace, I carry the portable tank while he walks unassisted the ten yards to the front door. I have missed him during the week 1 have been back in Tampa alone teaching my classes.

“Your smile is great,” I say.

“You should see yours,” Gene replies. “And the sparkle in your eyes. Let’s go out back. I want to feel the sunshine on my body.” Unable to stay apart, we keep touching. He is my Gene...

“YOU’RE ALLOWED to visit only fifteen minutes,” a nurse says when I arrive the next morning.

“How is Gene Weinstein doing?” I ask.

“To get his CO₂down,” she replies, “we decreased his oxygen intake last night. When his oxygen level dropped from sixty to forty—a dangerous low—we increased the oxygen flow hoping it would not bring the CO₂up with it. He seems better now.” I wonder at what level brain damage occurs, but I don’t ask.

Gene is alert and happy to see me. We embrace for a long time. I feel like crying, but it’s...

“I, EUGENE WEINSTEIN, do not wish to be kept alive through attachment to machines,” reads the living will we take, along with power-ofattorney forms, to the notary’s office on the way home from the hospital.

“You sit on the patio,” I tell Gene at home, “while I grade papers; then we’ll start our party.” Mter reading one paragraph, I put the papers aside, “Let the party begin. This time is too valuable.”

“In fact,” I continue, “I’ve been thinking of telling my publisher that I won’t make my December I deadline. It’s more important that I spend time with you.”...

“YOU ADVERTISE ‘an affordable burial,’ and I’m calling for rates,” I say to the funeral-home director. “This is for arterial embalming and transportation only.”

“Five hundred and fifty dollars? The last place wanted only four hundred ninety-two dollars.” We talk about charges for loaded mileage, local pickup, embalming, use of facility, and filling out documents. I handle it like a game, and laugh about the absurdity of looking for the cheapest burial.

“This director says we have to have a relative’s signature, and that my power of attorney is inadequate. How about your mother?” I ask Gene after putting my...

“I HAVE TO APOLOGIZE to you and Gene,” Gene’s brother, Jerry, says on the phone. “But I’m not good at handling situations like this. I make business decisions for people every day. I support my mother. But I want to make everything better for my brother and I can’t, so I avoid it. But if he died before I saw him, I’d never forgive myself.”

“Then you better come now,” I reply.

“But what will I say to him?”

“Just hold his hand. The words will come.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Remember, Jerry, you can cry.”

“In front of him?”...

I WRITE in my journal:

The last few days, I have been working at maximum efficiency. The engine is cranking, slow, sure, steady. Decisions. All the time. Mind working. A, then b, then c, which branches 1,2, 3, 4. Pick a, then off to d, now back to a. Get an overall picture. What has to be done? Priorities, in case everything can’t be done. Don’t forget to tend to any detail. And know that the most elaborate scheme might be blown by an emergency or a glitch in hospital bureaucracy or Gene’s needs.

Don’t collapse. Don’t overdo. Listen to...

GENE OFTEN lives now in a fantasy world. Sometimes he is crazy; then, seconds later, rational. This stage will be the hardest, for with it Gene loses his status as “person.” I write in my notes: “He has been irascible, confused, and obsessive. He spends his days and nights planning, administering, and repeating himself. This acute delirium is harder than the physical deterioration. He is not my loving Gene anymore, except for a few rare moments. I live for those. And I dread the day they are gone forever. Even writing this scares me shitless.”

“The night nurse said Gene...

“ADA, YOU’RE FIRED,” Gene says when she walks in Sunday night. “You wouldn’t let me have the phone,” he accuses.

I describe Gene’s condition to her, then go to bed. According to her notes, he refuses to let her do anything for him. At first, he dozes for short intervals and calls for “Charlotte” in his sleep, probably referring to the head of Total Care Nursing Services. At 1:00 A.M. he awakes and, when Ada approaches him, says, “Get the fuck out of here. All you do is make me suffer.” He turns on his breathing machine, but continues to...