ianwsmith

Apologies in advance - I intend to be cross-posting this.

My dad's obituary, which includes arrangements and a guestbook, can be viewed here:

http://www.legacy.com/thedailystar/Obituaries.asp?Page=LifeStory&PersonID=96827922

We are requesting that in lieu of flowers, donations be sent to the Adaptive Sports Foundation, where my father volunteered for 15 years teaching disabled individuals to ski.  I am copying the details below.


In lieu of flowers, please send donations to: Adaptive Sports Foundation, in memory of Stu "Magic Man" Smith, P.O. Box 266, Windham, NY 12496, or donate online at www.AdaptiveSportsFoundations.org. When making donations, please specify in the field labeled "Street Address:" "c/o Stu Smith (your address)."

Thanks to all who have given their condolences. 

The randomness, senselessness of my dad's death is still something that I have not at all come to terms with.  Thursday morning, I did not even know he was sick.  The first indication I had that anything was wrong was a call from Margaret at around 11 saying that she had gotten a call from Brenda that dad was in the hospital and that is was serious.  I called Melissa, who was home that day, to have her get some clothes together and pick up Benjamin from daycare and start driving north, I would meet her and we would go up to Stamford.  Less than an hour later - while still waiting for Melissa - Ethan called and told me that dad had passed away.

I'm not sure I can describe the experience of having my dad - a vital, healthy man of 63 who by all rights should have had another 20 years at least - suddenly ripped away from me.  It feels like a dream that has not yet ended, and that I know will not.  I feel like I've been punched in the gut. 

It turns out that my dad had contracted peritonitis, which had spread to his liver sometime earlier in the week.  He had had a high fever starting on Sunday, and in typical fashion had put off going to the doctor, toughing it out.  When he decided at Brenda's urging to call the doctor on Tuesday, he was unable to get an appointment until Thursday.  Wednesday night he started having trouble breathing and went to the emergency room.  The doctors were unable to determine the cause of the infection in time and he was too far gone for the antibiotics to help.  The coroner said that there was no way for him to have known that this was so serious - there would have been no symptoms except for the fever.

My dad had a fever, and it killed him.  This has led me to reflect on the fragility of our health, and in particular on the staggering impotence of our medical art.  It is the conceit of people in all times - and certainly in ours - that we live in a modern, advanced society.  But I have never felt so much that I am living in a dark age.  In the face of bacteria our medical profession was beaten.  bested.  In fact there was no contest.

This of course is not news to me, but when viewed with these fresh eyes that seem to have had a haze of naivete burned away by the events of the past week it seems newly astonishing.  As when on September 12th many of us had facts that we already knew twisted into a new context by the bloody events of that day (planes=guided missiles), I have had the fact rubbed into my nose that we have no good and reliable techniques to use against these killers if they have enough of a head start.

One of many hard, hard lessons this week.