Sunday, May 12, 2013

My Friend Abe

written December 2006
When Abe died, I lost a good friend. Actually I lost more: a lunch companion, a patient, a consultant in my pulmonary function laboratory at The Methodist Hospital, and a voracious reader who fed me titles of novels and non-fiction that he knew would interest me. And when I visited him at his house a week before he died, I told him how much our friendship had meant to me; “Abe, I love you, and I’m so sorry about what has happened." He said nothing. I asked for a hug, held him tightly, then left.

On my way home, I thought about the disease that was taking his life, how I had studied it, had written medical articles about it, and considered myself an expert about it. Without a sound it had crept into his busy, productive life at the University of Houston and into his blissful marriage. It had given him not a sliver of a chance of successful treatment. Just death.

We had met Abe and Fran at the social gatherings of the “49-niners” - families that had moved to Houston in the late 1940’s. He was an engineer, a chemical engineer. I should have known his interests when he described how he and Fran would visit the concrete slab of the house they were building and water it thoroughly every evening to slow its hardening process and thus, give it maximum strength. He described how he intended to put a panel of signals at his bedside, connected to the security system and the lights throughout the house so that, at a glance, he could see if doors were open or lights were on.

At our initial get together we learned that Abe and Fran played lots of tennis, both together and with friends. Though they were short in stature, they did not lack for enthusiasm and agility; they were known for scurrying around the courts and being tough competitors. Fran took to the usual division of the family agenda with determination. I learned from Abe that their son and two daughters behaved well, got good grades, gave them no trouble. So Fran, who chattered endlessly, and whose face was always shiny and flushed as evidence of her chronic anxiety, accomplished her part of family chores with success. I never heard Abe complain about the children, nor did he find fault with Fran.

Abe had come to Houston to teach at the University in its chemical engineering division. His salary was not enough for his family’s needs, so he took a part-time job at Shell Oil Company. They put him to work applying his expertise dealing with the action of fluids and gases as they flowed through pipelines.

At the University, he was busy and happy. He taught undergrads, he did research, he monitored grad students, and he took his turn as chairman of the department, a task no one wanted. Rotation of the job eased the pain of an onerous function. Actually, as Abe told me of the workings of his department, I could tell he loved being in charge and did it well. As we talked at lunch dates, I learned more about him: he was a consultant to the French government about their nuclear power plants and to the state of Israel for its problems with the desalinization of sea water.

After a year, he gave up his part-time job with Shell and formed an outside consulting firm with two of his teaching associates. His success with his department was marked by the outstanding caliber of his professors, with noteworthy research, and with the numerous scientific papers that were published. Recognition came nationally when his department was given a $10 million grant over a ten-year period to add equipment, take more students, increase faculty– anything Abe and his coworkers needed and wanted. The grant was a recognition of what Abe was trying to accomplish; it boosted Abe’s pride in what he had done. It encouraged him and provided him with the funds to plan for the future of his department.

At one point, Abe took a year’s sabbatical at Oxford University. Fran and the children went with him. It was a time for Abe to relax and explore his thoughts for the future. The University was never very far from his mind. He wanted ideas to better his department for years to come. When Yvette and I were in London, we made a side-trip to spend the day with Abe and his family. We toured the campus with its ancient buildings, classrooms, and libraries, and then made a visit to Blackwell's bookstore to stare in awe at what seemed like acres of books and periodicals. Much intellectual stimulation for one day. And Abe and Fran were such warm hosts.

Soon after Abe and his family returned to Houston, a dark cloud moved in. We heard that Fran had announced that she wanted out of the marriage. She had met a publisher from Washington, D.C. and was leaving to marry him. There was shock throughout the community. What had happened? Did Abe suspect anything? Had anybody suspected anything? When Abe came to see me, he explained his reaction, “Dan, when something like this happens, you check to see if your balls are still there.”

Abe’s next move was inexplicable. In a few short months, he married Nancy, who came under our critical gaze at a social gathering at our home. We listened to her and were dismayed to see that in his haste, or out of desperation to recover his faith in himself, Abe had made a profound error. Nancy whined and complained about Abe. She did not seem to realize that the brief courtship that lead to their marriage was much too short for them to get to know each other: she gave no hint that she bore any responsibility in the miserable state they were in. We squirmed to hear her complain how she was being put upon.

A divorce ended Abe’s misery with Nancy. But Abe had not quit looking for companionship. At lunch at the River CafĂ© he confided in me about Loring: a young, bright, vivacious woman who worked in public relations at the University’s front office. Did I say “Young?” Probably about 20 years younger than Abe. She was so good for Abe. When we met her, it was clear she doted on him, could not do enough for him. They laughed a lot, held hands. He told us that when they planned a trip to France, she plastered Post-its all over their house, giving the French for door, sink, shower, hello, goodbye. Abe loved her attention, her youth, her enthusiasm. As I later told Loring, she was more than a “Ten” for Abe; she was about a thousand. Loring became active in Abe’s home to suit their needs: she fenced in the yard to hold her Doberman, planted flowers, rearranged the furniture in the sitting room, painted the pantry, hung more pictures. She was a lively, busy spirit in Abe’s life.

Then Abe came to see me about pains in his stomach. I could find nothing, gave him some medicine, and suggested a return visit. At his return he brought Loring who asked me if stress could be causing his symptoms. I told her that it was high on my list of possibilities. She then explained: The University was looking for a new president. Abe wanted the job. Maybe the tension of hoping to be chosen was getting to him. A wise lady.

The final chapter of Abe’s life came without warning and with a stamp of doom. He became short of breath; a large tumor in his chest, a mesothelioma, was the cause. Mesotheliomas are rare, very rare, and with little exception they are the result of breathing fibers of asbestos. If Abe had been an insulator or a welder or a worker in construction, we could understand his exposure to asbestos. And, besides, it takes 30-40- years after exposure before the mesothelioma appears. So where had Abe been 30-40 years ago, long ago, where he might have been exposed to particles of asbestos insulation? We poked around in Abe’s memory and so, it came out. The small room where he sat in his work for Shell had had insulated pipes overhead. The covering of the insulation was torn, and flakes of asbestos floated down continously. Thus, the small room, the air filled with visible and invisible particles for Abe to breathe.

The irony of it: I, with my interest in lung disease and knowledge of the dangers of asbestos, was watching my best friend die of the mineral which could not let me change his outcome, no matter what was tried or wished for. There was nothing for me to do. Nothing but tell Abe what was in my heart, embrace him, and say goodbye.

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