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by Neal Whitman, Poetry Prof

There are moments in our existence,
spots of time that, with distinct preeminence,
retain a renovating virtue.

Williams Wordsworth, Prelude

Wordsworth began to write a poem when he was 28 years old to track the growth of his mind. He worked on it until his death at age 80 and it was not published until three months after his death. His wife gave it the title Prelude.

You and I have experienced many of these moments, haven’t we? Unlike the great poet, we might not make the commitment to record these. But, we can choose to bring ‘em to mind and hold dear. Let me share a set of these moments that occurred ten years ago. One moment, of course, leads to another. I begin with one moment reading the Salt Lake Tribune. July 10, 2000. A downtown art gallery will hold a show for Andrew Christensen, age 19, diagnosed with Ewings sarcoma at age 17.

I attend and meet the artist, a young man attached to an IV pole – a morphine drip – and wearing an Oxygen mask. I also meet his hospice nurse who, when she learns that I work with first year medical students to broaden their education beyond the basic sciences, tells me that Andrew’s tumors has spread to his chest, that prognosis was not good, and that the aim now was for pain management. She wonders if, perhaps, Andrew would like to tell his story to my medical students.

I speak directly to Andrew: “Will you come teach my medical students what they need to know when care, not cure, is the agenda?”

“Yes, he tells me. But, come to my home and interview me. I’ll never make it to your class.”

I go to his home on August 7. I ask questions and he talks. He is very specific about what I was to say. Here are some of his words he tells me to me to tell the medical students in the class scheduled for September 1: “You need to recognize how temporary everything is, including the most expensive thing you bought and care for, to your relationships, to your health.”

My wife, Elaine, and I are invited to the Christensen home on Sunday evening, August 27. At the front door, Andrew’s father, Mark, steps outside and warns us that “Andrew is no longer Andrew.” He gives us the option of not coming in if we would feel uncomfortable.

We enter and sit in Andrew’s bedroom with his father, mother, sister, and grandmother and we read a book of poems we had brought as a gift, a copy of Without by Donald Hall. Don wrote this book in memory of his wife, Jane Kenyon, who died of leukemia at age 47 in 1995. He had been my guest the previous week, reading to the medical students his poems of love and loss. Don inscribed this copy of his book to Andrew. We also brought to read a copy of Jane Kenyon’s poem, “Let Evening Come.”

Andrew’s awareness of his surroundings, I must say, are tenuous at best. Still, Elaine and I are aware of the love and dignity in that small, crowded room and all present share faith that Andrew, at some level, also is aware of that as Jane’s poem and some of Don’s are read.

Mark calls me Tuesday morning. Andrew has died Monday evening with his family there. Thursday I teach the class, just as planned. Andrew’s final words, as I convey to the medical students, and, now to you, are these:

You can never, ever, go wrong, asking a cancer patient, “What is this like for you?”

It does not take a diagnosis of cancer for this question to make a difference, does it? Can you and I ask a loved one, a friend, or even a new acquaintance facing any challenge in life: “What is this like for you?”

I was reminded of all this when I read ” I Missed my Moment,” by Polish poet Tadeusz Dabrowski, in the 2010 May-June American Poetry Review. To paraphrase, he asks,

I missed my moment… How could I fail to miss it…? When, where? Or maybe it missed me… vanished over the horizon and is waiting.

Come, let us not miss the moment. Come, let us read poetry. And remember.

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