Remembrance of Bronson Crothers
I was honored to have the chance to spend the day before Bronson's surgery in August with him. Marianne was at work, and I was in the apartment in Acton, just to be there. Bronson spent most of the time sleeping, and it was gratifying to hear his deep snores. I told Marianne and Bronson later that afternoon that I kept thinking I was hearing my dog. She is also a very sincere sleeper. They laughed.
When Bronson did get up, he made it with difficulty to a chair in the living room. His features had been transformed, his face puffy and his hair thin, but once we got talking it was clear that he was still himself, struggling to be so, but still Bronson. He was extraordinarily fairminded and kind. Despite his suffering, he managed to keep a sense of humor. I had spent the time while he slept making camping reservations for a college tour that we were planning with our daughter, Sylvia. I told him about this, and he told me that he didn't like to camp. "Well", he said, "I can't fairly say I don't like it since I only really tried it once." He said he had gone on some sort of search and rescue trip, I believe, and he had slept in a leanto on a hard floor, and his back had gone out. He said he wasn't much use after that and had not tried camping again. He said he also hated bugs. Well, not all bugs, but mosquitos. Well, he did not hate them, they were just doing what mosquitos do . . . but he wasn't much of a one for spending time with them.
He asked about which schools Sylvia was applying to, and when he heard that the list was fairly long, he told a story about how, when he was in high school, there was a guidance counselor that no one liked, so a friend of his decided to get him back by applying to one school after another he wasn't sure how many just to give the guidance counselor more work (suburban teenage crime my comment). It may not seem like much that we had these conversations, but it was extraordinary in that Bronson had to struggle to find each word, had to fight against his immense fatigue to keep a thread going, and in all of that had the ability to laugh.
It was also extraordinary that he maintained a focus on others. We talked about my daughter's college tour, not about his terrible illness. This focus on others was also clear when Bronson's sister Bronwyn called. He talked with her for a few minutes and encouraged her to take care of herself since she also had an illness at the time. It was only when he got off the phone that he broke down into sobs. It was clear throughout Bronson's illness I also got to see him shortly after he was diagnosed that his biggest pain was in feeling the grief that others would feel at his loss. When he was in the hospital after his diagnosis, he was okay with seeing me, since ours was a secondary friendship. His primary friendship was with my husband, Bob, and he was finding it difficult to face Bob's grief.
I was struck by the depth of Bronson's love for Bob and for his family, in that it seemed his greatest fear and pain was felt through his empathy with them. This was apparent when Marianne came home for lunch. She made soup and sandwiches for us. Bronson ate, though it was difficult for him. He repeatedly apologised for putting Marianne to the trouble. That's okay, she kept saying. I am profoundly grateful to both Bronson and Marianne for turning to us in this
I was honored to have the chance to spend the day before Bronson's surgery in August with him. Marianne was at work, and I was in the apartment in Acton, just to be there. Bronson spent most of the time sleeping, and it was gratifying to hear his deep snores. I told Marianne and Bronson later that afternoon that I kept thinking I was hearing my dog. She is also a very sincere sleeper. They laughed.
When Bronson did get up, he made it with difficulty to a chair in the living room. His features had been transformed, his face puffy and his hair thin, but once we got talking it was clear that he was still himself, struggling to be so, but still Bronson. He was extraordinarily fairminded and kind. Despite his suffering, he managed to keep a sense of humor. I had spent the time while he slept making camping reservations for a college tour that we were planning with our daughter, Sylvia. I told him about this, and he told me that he didn't like to camp. "Well", he said, "I can't fairly say I don't like it since I only really tried it once." He said he had gone on some sort of search and rescue trip, I believe, and he had slept in a leanto on a hard floor, and his back had gone out. He said he wasn't much use after that and had not tried camping again. He said he also hated bugs. Well, not all bugs, but mosquitos. Well, he did not hate them, they were just doing what mosquitos do . . . but he wasn't much of a one for spending time with them.
He asked about which schools Sylvia was applying to, and when he heard that the list was fairly long, he told a story about how, when he was in high school, there was a guidance counselor that no one liked, so a friend of his decided to get him back by applying to one school after another he wasn't sure how many just to give the guidance counselor more work (suburban teenage crime my comment). It may not seem like much that we had these conversations, but it was extraordinary in that Bronson had to struggle to find each word, had to fight against his immense fatigue to keep a thread going, and in all of that had the ability to laugh.
It was also extraordinary that he maintained a focus on others. We talked about my daughter's college tour, not about his terrible illness. This focus on others was also clear when Bronson's sister Bronwyn called. He talked with her for a few minutes and encouraged her to take care of herself since she also had an illness at the time. It was only when he got off the phone that he broke down into sobs. It was clear throughout Bronson's illness I also got to see him shortly after he was diagnosed that his biggest pain was in feeling the grief that others would feel at his loss. When he was in the hospital after his diagnosis, he was okay with seeing me, since ours was a secondary friendship. His primary friendship was with my husband, Bob, and he was finding it difficult to face Bob's grief.
I was struck by the depth of Bronson's love for Bob and for his family, in that it seemed his greatest fear and pain was felt through his empathy with them. This was apparent when Marianne came home for lunch. She made soup and sandwiches for us. Bronson ate, though it was difficult for him. He repeatedly apologised for putting Marianne to the trouble. That's okay, she kept saying. I am profoundly grateful to both Bronson and Marianne for turning to us in this
time of deepest difficulty. I feel honored to have witnessed their love and their courage and to
have been a small part of their comfort in this terrible ordeal. It is good to have friends. I will
always look upon the way Bronson died as a reflection of his extraordinary character. Bob and I
used to speak, jokingly, of how Bronson was like the character Spock in Star Trek, so logical.
But there was an unselfishness, a fairmindedness, in that logical manner that really shone
through as a very deep love for others. We miss him.
Irene Jackson December 29, 2015
Irene Jackson December 29, 2015
