It's Not Dark Yet But It's Getting There

For a friend

Leonard Hayflick, Who Discovered Why No One Lives Forever, Dies at 96

He and a colleague, Paul Moorhead, soon noticed that somatic — that is, nonreproductive — cells went through a phase of division, splitting between 40 and 60 times, before lapsing into what he called senescence.

As senescent cells accumulate, he posited, the body itself begins to age and decline. The only cells that do not go into senescence, he added, are cancer cells.

As a result of this cellular clock, he said, no amount of diet or exercise or genetic tweaking will push the human species past a life span of about 125 years.

I moved into my house in the Philippines in March, 2015. I didn’t have internet at home (it would take more than 6 months and dozens of phone calls to make that a reality) but I found a small cafe in my subdivision that had WiFi. They had coffee and sandwiches but their real business seemed to be home delivery of beer by the case. I could sit there all day using their WiFI while only spending 3 or 4 dollars. They were never busy, so they didn’t seem to mind.

One day I was standing outside of that cafe having a smoke when a white guy pulled up on a scooter. Another white guy in the same subdivision as me? We introduced ourselves and asked the important questions. Love Springsteen? Yes. Hate Trump? Yes. He and I were clearly destined to be friends.

As it turned out, there was a handful of other Americans in the subdivision. One died before he was 40, most of the others (who were only renting) moved away. Soon it was down to me and him. He’d come over to my place, we’d listen to music and watch music videos; I’d fill up whatever hard disk or USB stick he brought along with the latest albums and films; he’d smoke a cigar and drink the better part of a six-pack.

About a year ago he was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver. At first he was told he probably had five years before he’d need to worry about a transplant, but in the following weeks, his health started to rapidly decline. Soon he was told that he would need a new liver within a year. He returned to the U.S., where he thought it would be easier or quicker to get a transplant.

The transplant would not be covered by his medical insurance; that must have been a very unpleasant surprise. And then the doctors found all sorts of other problems, mostly to do with his heart. He needed something called ablation. He needed stents. His cholesterol was too high.

Many months and several procedures later, he was told that his health was now stable enough that he could be put on the waiting list for a liver. Less than a week later, there was a liver with his name on it, and he was wheeled into the operating room and given whatever anesthetic they use. He went to sleep knowing he would wake up with a new liver and a new lease on life.

Instead, when he woke up, he was told that they couldn’t do the transplant. The doctors found some huge blood clots and couldn’t go through with the operation. I can’t even begin to imagine how he must have felt when he received that news.

After that, the pace of his decline increased. The doctors tried blood thinners on him, but that led to internal bleeding, which led to a massive drop in blood pressure. He was in and out of the ICU, needing blood transfusions to bring his blood pressure up again.

Finally the doctors told him that since the blood thinners weren’t working and there was no other way to get rid of those blood clots, there was nothing else they could do for him. Three days after he was scheduled to get the transplant, his wife wrote to me, “He has given up the fight already and is saying his goodbyes to us.” I asked if he was strong enough for me to call; she said he was in constant pain.

Today I was told he would be moved to hospice care as soon as a bed is available.

I don’t know how much time he has left. I don’t know if I’ll be able to talk to him and I don’t know what I would say if I could.

As we age, death becomes more common, a more constant fixture in our lives. There’s the death of our parents. Then there’s the death of our idols - musicians, filmmakers, writers, politicians. The death of friends.

I’ve lost three friends prematurely. It appears that I’m about to lose a fourth. It doesn’t get any easier. In fact, it gets harder. Each one hits me that much harder. Each one has me thinking longer and deeper. About their lives. About my life. I probably spend too much time thinking about how much time I have left.

It’s early Sunday morning. I’m refreshing my friend’s Facebook page every hour, both looking for and dreading news of what is likely to come in the next few hours or days. I want to think that something is going to turn things around for him, that he’s going to recover, that we’ll go see the next Springsteen tour together. In the meantime, I’ve been trying to write about him in present tense. Past tense is too painful, too soon.

Aside from Springsteen, he also loves Lou Reed, Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Jackson Browne, Tom Petty. Here’s a bit of Dylan:

Well, I've been to London and I been to gay Paris
I've followed the river and I got to the sea
I've been down on the bottom of the world full of lies
I ain't lookin' for nothin' in anyone's eyes

Sometimes my burden is more than I can bear
It's not dark yet, but it's gettin' there

I was born here and I'll die here against my will
I know it looks like I'm movin' but I'm standin' still
Every nerve in my body is so naked and numb
I can't even remember what it was, I came here to get away from

Don't even hear the murmur of a prayer
It's not dark yet, but it's gettin' there

And here’s a Jackson Browne lyric that has stayed with me forever:

I sit before my only candle
But it's so little light to find my way
Now this story unfolds before my candle
Which is shorter every hour as it reaches for the day
But I feel just like a candle in a way
I guess I'll get there, but I wouldn't say for sure