Passages: Bruce Durocher II
On Sunday morning at 7 AM, my friend Margaret's husband Bruce passed away after a five-year struggle with colon cancer. Bruce was a film enthusiast of the first order, a reader, a maker, a master of the obscure detail, and a science fiction fan. He always had something he'd want to share. His first instinct was always to be generous, offering help if it seemed to be needed. And he very much loved Margaret.
Bruce went into the hospital last Wednesday with a serious case of jaundice. I visited him on Thursday night at the hospital. We talked about movies. He told me, "I'm glad you came. I've always liked you," which nearly wiped me out right there. He was lucid and present and could carry on a conversation, though obviously in great physical discomfort. I went back to the hospital on Friday evening, and he couldn't say anything except to answer direct questions about his physical state. He was having spasms and a great deal of nausea. By the time I left, the doctor had dosed him up pretty significantly and he was sleeping. He passed away a little more than a day later.
Margaret is with her family for the week; she's in good hands.
As almost always seems to be the case, I feel like there were things I wanted to say and didn't. I don't do well at deathbeds, apparently, but then I suppose no one really does. Or perhaps I was in denial, despite understanding at a fundamental level on Friday night that I was standing at his deathbed. Bruce has always come back from his hospital visits; he seemed to tolerate his cancer treatments better than almost anyone I've seen. Margaret said that up until two weeks ago, his only real symptom was fatigue. It rapidly became clear, though, that he wasn't coming back from this one.
You'll be missed, Bruce. Rest easy, man. You deserve it.
Bruce went into the hospital last Wednesday with a serious case of jaundice. I visited him on Thursday night at the hospital. We talked about movies. He told me, "I'm glad you came. I've always liked you," which nearly wiped me out right there. He was lucid and present and could carry on a conversation, though obviously in great physical discomfort. I went back to the hospital on Friday evening, and he couldn't say anything except to answer direct questions about his physical state. He was having spasms and a great deal of nausea. By the time I left, the doctor had dosed him up pretty significantly and he was sleeping. He passed away a little more than a day later.
Margaret is with her family for the week; she's in good hands.
As almost always seems to be the case, I feel like there were things I wanted to say and didn't. I don't do well at deathbeds, apparently, but then I suppose no one really does. Or perhaps I was in denial, despite understanding at a fundamental level on Friday night that I was standing at his deathbed. Bruce has always come back from his hospital visits; he seemed to tolerate his cancer treatments better than almost anyone I've seen. Margaret said that up until two weeks ago, his only real symptom was fatigue. It rapidly became clear, though, that he wasn't coming back from this one.
You'll be missed, Bruce. Rest easy, man. You deserve it.