Life, Death and Politics: A Memoir of Courage

Tom knew his time was limited, and he lived his life as best he could in the face of mounting physical limitations. He belonged to the Gridiron Club, a group of journalists who each year stage a musical roast of politicians and the press. He had performed before presidents Clinton and Bush, produced numerous skits and twice served as music chairman. He loved the Gridiron, and the Gridiron loved him. In the spring of 2004, just months before he enrolled in hospice and already greatly weakened by cancer, he got up onto the stage and belted out the rock-and-roll tune "Tutti Frutti," in a parody tribute to former New York mayor and 9/11 hero Rudy Giuliani. I sat in the audience terrified for Tom that he would just keel over, but he pulled it off with spirit and style.

Those watching did not know he had spent the previous night retching, ending what he referred to as his thirty-record. It was the first time he had thrown up since he was in the army. This was new. He suffered from low-grade nausea and a lack of appetite, but until now he had been spared the worst of that particular side effect. He consulted with his doctor, who advised he get his electrolytes checked before risking anything strenuous. There was no time for that. Tom's solution was to not eat anything all day Saturday and grit it out.

He came back the next day for the traditional Sunday reprise for friends and family. That night, the Gridiron gave him a standing ovation. For those who didn't know otherwise, he looked almost robust. Steroids prescribed to reduce swelling in the brain gave him a rosy glow to his face along with a sense of well-being and an increased appetite. He actually gained a few pounds, which created an artificial look of health. When people would tell him how good he looked, he would respond with the Billy Crystal line from "Saturday Night Live," "Better to look mahvelous than feel mahvelous."

Tom arranged for his cremation a full year before he died. The package was called "pre-need," a phrase I came to recognize watching "Six Feet Under." He handed me the envelope, which I stubbornly refused to open until I had to, and then I was grateful to have it. He also gave me a program from a memorial service that had been held at the National Press Club that I could use as an outline. The widow later sent me her exchange of e-mails with Tom in which he said he would like a memorial "celebration" like she had had for her husband. The word celebration did not come easily to me, but knowing that's what Tom wanted made all the difference.

March 30, 2005
The sun comes in my bedroom window well before six in the morning We'll soon move the clocks forward an hour, but until then I'm getting up with the first rays of light. I come downstairs this morning and notice that Tom is very still. [He sleeps on a hospital bed in the living room.] The bag that collects urine has not changed much since the night before. I push the thought away that he could have died. I don't want to face it, at least not yet. I am reassured when I see the sheet move slowly up and down. He must be breathing.

I partially shut the French doors leading into the living room like I have so many mornings, not wanting to disturb Tom and selfishly wanting to get my day started before I turn it over to his care. I go to the basement and ride ten miles on the stationary bike Tom had gotten me for my birthday, eat cereal for breakfast, feed the cats, feed the birds and the squirrels, and buzz up to Starbucks for an iced decaffeinated coffee, my normal morning routine. (In my telling and retelling of this momentous morning, a friend will gently advise, "Eleanor, leave out the part about Starbucks.") It has been my habit these last months to fortify myself with life's little pleasures before Tom is awake and the hospice caregiver arrives. I leave the door unlocked and a note on the stairs saying I'll be back in fifteen minutes, together with my cell phone number. I don't want anybody thinking I am slacking off.