Nothing Was the Same by Kay Redfield Jamison Page B

do not believe there is another. But you will know that I am with you in Big Sur. Love, R.”
    I walked on the beach and read and slept in the sun. And then I slept some more. Only after the first day did I realize how bone-weary I really was. Richard and I spoke every hour or so, and as he said he was feeling better, I felt somewhat less guilty than when I had left Washington. I reread one of my favorite books, The Once and Future King , and was struck by King Arthur’s resolution and tempered optimism in the face of tragedy. I understood better this time, in the reading and from knowing Richard, the rarity of that kind of strength.
    The weather was glorious, which is not usually the case in Big Sur. I ate California artichokes and figs and apricots and walnuts. I filled myself with the sun and the breeze and the ocean and the great tall trees. I looked to the sea and I lifted my eyes to the hills, from which, with the Psalmist, I drew my strength. It passed through my mind that I would not be able to be in Big Sur with anyone other than Richard.
    When I returned to Washington, Richard was worse. Within two weeks, he was shorter of breath than he had ever been and he had lost nearly ten pounds. He caught pneumonia. He ate next to nothing and slept more; I watched him lose a bit of his life each day. The intimacy in being together during the approach of death is unimaginable. We knew that what he was going through was final. We lay so close to each other in our bed that we were aware of everything that went on in the other’s body. It was a long and private farewell.
    In mid-April, Ettinger told us that Richard’s disease had “progressed.” The way in which he said this gave us no hope. Bob Gallo made arrangements for Richard to enroll in an experimental drug trial at George Washington University Hospital and sent his medical records and scans to a gene therapist at Vanderbilt. Richard was enrolled to participate in the NIH vaccine protocol in the fall, but it seemed unlikely that he would live that long.
    He started on Iressa as part of an experimental trial to test the drug’s efficacy in patients with lung cancer. It had “shown promise,” a phrase we had come to doubt, but there were not many options left. His energy was deteriorating, he spent less time at his computer, and it was only infrequently and with great difficulty that he was able to get up and down the stairs. Friends visited more often now, but their visits were shorter.
    We had quiet evenings and somewhat disjointed days from that point on. We waited. We hoped against the reality that we knew. Richard slept more, and I lay next to him and didn’t sleep. I read to him for hours a day, although he often fell asleep, and friends and colleagues continued to stream in. At the end of April, Richard and I decided we should have a dinner party for our closest friends to thank them for their friendship and for their extraordinary efforts in trying to save his life. It was our last dinner party, but it was wonderful. I set the table with masses of candles of different heights and azaleas from the garden and made a dinner of papaya with lime and crystallized ginger and figs and salmon and champagne. Everything was alight and beautiful, and the evening was warm with friends who knew exactly what was what.
    The next day, I went to Rock Creek Cemetery to pick out a burial plot for Richard and myself. Richard was too ill to come, but he knew the cemetery because we had been there on several occasions to visit the Saint-Gaudens memorial for Clover Adams. It was the last day of April and there were great blossoming trees everywhere. I called Richard from my cell phone at different sites to describe them to him and to ask which he preferred. We agreed on a place in one of the older parts of the cemetery, near clusters of old trees and within sight of a lily pond. Richard loved the idea of our being near a lily pond in perpetuity and suggested, with a laugh, that I