Last conversation

 

My last conversation with Robert

 

My last conversation with Robert was a few weeks ago. A message from Kumi was waiting for me when I came home that night. She requested that I call his cell phone, and not the landline. During the call, I found out that that Robert was using a set of headphones with a built-in microphone, so he didn't have to deal with holding the receiver to his ear.

 

Robert was in very good spirits. His voice was a bit raspy and his breathing sounded labored. He was hooked up to a portable oxygen tank. From his description, I imagined one of those tubes attached to the person's nose, not a full mask covering the mouth.

 

I had planned on a short conversation and was happily surprised to find that Robert was willing and able to talk for much longer we stayed on the phone for maybe an hour and a half.

 

It was obvious that Kumi was taking good care of him. At one point, I waited out a small kerfuffle on the other end as the headphones had dislodged, and Robert was acting the difficult patient as Kumi worked it back in place. During this break, I could hear lots of laughter between the two of them.

 

Robert knew he was dying, and he was open about discussing the situation. He didn't seem all that concerned about it. He mentioned that he was looking forward to seeing his father. I told him about some study that discovered that birthday milestones are important to people. Apparently, the majority of people die within six months after a birthday, as opposed to dying six months before. Robert made it clear that he was not interested in staying alive just to celebrate another personal anniversary.

 

I asked him if he was in any physical discomfort and he responded, "no". He brought up the idea that it was important to keep up the laughter with Kumi and his friends, and he held up his end. We were joking and reminiscing with lots of laughs. He was mentally sharp. At one point, I attempted to make a bad joke about his giving up chemistry and how the world might have been better off had he stuck with it. He called me on the lame joke, and we moved on to other topics.

 

There was a fairly-long-to-the-point-of-being-uncomfortable pause when Robert announced he was going to move from one part of the house to his bed to lie down. I thought that might warrant the end of our conversation, but he asked me to hold on while he made the transition. I must confess, it took longer than I would have guessed. I found myself uncomfortably wondering if this was it. Was I tele-witnessing his last breath?

 

He dropped the phone, and Kumi came over to set him and things up on the bed. His frustration was evident, and he also found the humor in it. He was laughing again as he spread out on the bed. Kumi then took the dogs for a walk.

 

For a long time I have encouraged Robert to write a book about street performing, and many of you may know that he began writing a series of essays about other performers a couple of years ago and publishing them on the Internet.

 

Previously, I had offered to compile his essays and publish them as a book. I broached the idea again. Robert was adamant that his writings not be turned into a book. I pushed back, and made him be more specific as to his reasons for refusing.

 

Robert told me that he didn't think his writing was good enough to be published as a book. While I didn't argue with him, I didn't accept his premise, and pointed out that many people (including me) enjoyed his writing. He elaborated, claiming that his literary skills were much like his performing—good enough to get by, and nothing stellar. This concept seemed to amuse him, and he fleshed out the idea that whatever success he had had, as a performer and/or writer, were more the result of audiences not being discerning enough, rather than any talent he might have had, or effort he might have put into his career. He summed up his work as "maybe adequate".

 

After letting him go on for a while, I interrupted, and suggested that he might have come up with a great title for a book about his career and writing, "Barely Adequate".  We both got a huge chuckle out of that. The kind of giggling where both parties find it hard to talk because we were just laughing too hard.

 

After we caught our breaths, he said he'd think about the idea of a book some more. With sirens in the background, Robert then explained he had to go. Police cars were were arriving with lights on. He assured me it wasn't an ambulance for him, and he'd better check out what kind of problems his wife and dogs may have gotten into.

 

I hung up the phone with a feeling that I may have had the last conversation with a cherished friend, and it was good one. I didn't call after that; partly because I wanted to respect Robert's time with Kumi and others dear to him, and partly because I could not imagine having a better last conversation than the one we had just had.

 

Otsu Kara Sama Deshita, Uncle Robert, and thanks for enriching our lives with so much laughter, kindness and generosity,

 

Uncle Todd

 

copyright 2012 by Todd Strong

 

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