She had just been installed as president of the auxiliary when I was called upon to take a picture to promote a hospital project. While she and her vice president engaged in a good-natured argument about which one would be photographed, another auxiliary member whispered to me that Jean was a cancer victim with only six months to live. She seems to be a fine person. Then it occured to me that her attitude might make it easier for friends and relatives to stay close to her while she was dying. Usually, that isn't easy.
Nobody wants to talk about dying.
Loneliness and feelings of rejection add to the patient's suffering. Old friends turn up at the funeral bearing flowers and words of condolence, trying to close the rift that existed between diagnosis and death. These thoughts remained in the back of my mind on that morning in October 1977 when Jean came to the newspaper office to tell me about an organization she was starting for the terminally ill. She arrived by wheelchair, courtesy of her husband, Luke, who later transported her on many missions of mercy. She wore a little knit cap to cover her bald head.