Everyone remembers when TC passed away on the 1st of October 2013.
It has been a sad day for the Novellists and for his Readers worldwide.
As a fan since his first book, I had the luck to be able to exchange mail with him during ten years, and follow his professional life throught a forum, today closed.
In December 2006, Tom had his first heart attack, then very kindly posted the following message in the forum. I saved it for my archives. I believe it is worth being known, so voilà:
"Nothing particularly on topic--not that you guys ever let that stop you--but something that might be of passing interest to those who read my books.
I should probably be dead now. I have never written anything like that before, and in truth it feels melodramatic, since I never really felt all that bad. But five--or was it six?--Fridays ago, I felt a little punk. Took an a mile walk around NYC--a city I don't like very much--and came back to the hotel feeling a little tired. (Odd, I can usually walk all day long.) Woke up the next day, NY Times, breakfast, TV, another boring day kicked off. But my wife comes from NYC, and I go there to make her happy. So, another installment in the marriage contract.
Then something rather odd happened. I was sitting in the room, and the TV was on, probably to a news channel, and it started moving. Imagine sitting in the dead center of a movie theater, and the stuff on the screen starts moving left-to-right at high speed, like 20 RPM or so. Very strange. Stranger still, I didn't feel dizzy from it. I sat down to digest this phenomenon, and in due course, say about 90 seconds, it stopped. How very odd, I thought, then I forgot about it. But 20 minutes later it happened again, this time for maybe 30 seconds, and that made me think something was genuinely wrong. Maybe I should call my friend Terry, who fixed my eyes a few years ago. Good guy, good doc, now living in Florida. Shortly thereafter my wife called via her cell phone. She asked how I was doing and I replied that something odd had taken place, and I described it to her. Alex got excited. Inside of half an hour she was back in the hotel with me and planning a trip back to Baltimore. (She even thought about chartering a private ambulance, but common sense broke out, and though I settled on an SUV, I still think we would have been better off on the train, but my opinion as overruled.) Several hours later we left the hotel and drove down. Three to four hour trip that passed uneventfully. Every stop on the New Jersey turnpike I thought about getting some cigarettes, but for fear of Alex's reaction, I refrained. Ate Arthur Treacher's Fish & Chips, which I rather like, but it's a dead franchise operation. Pity. We made it to Baltimore, where we have a condo, and then Alex dragged me to the Johns Hopkins Hospital Emergency Room.
Alex had called ahead to a friend, named Curt. Curt is a pal, and something of a hero to me. Pediatric Oncologist. Crummy way to earn a living. Hell of a guy, brilliant physician/scientist. Superb doc. He was waiting when we showed up, and I was checked into the ER for a preliminary evaluation. The usual medical bullshit, answering the usual questions repeatedly to different physicians who nod, hem and haw a lot. Then they sent me off for various tests, the results of which were unremarkable as far as I could tell. So, I was checked into the hospital proper for observation. I was probably pretty dull to look at.
Next day the tests began in earnest. You bleed into test tubes (fortunately the troops at Hopkins who stick you are expert, and it doesn't hurt much) but the worst memory of this date was the MRI scan. You lay on your back and they slide you into a large plastic tube, about 4" from your nose while a machine looks into your body through physics I do not understand. (I'd later hear from a doc that his father-in-law, a Jewish chap, did this and called it the worst experience of his entire life. This guy was a concentration-camp survivor. He thought it worse than Bergen-Belsen. It wasn't pleasant, but no SS guys appeared to end my tenure on earth as "unworthy of life." What the hell. I have blue eyes.) No word ever on results. Toss in an echocardiogram. That was when things started getting iffy.
A couple of docs came into see me, one of whom I'll call Dr. B. Dr. B is an ordinary-looking chap, about two weeks younger than I am, I would later learn. He looks smart, but there are a lot of people like that at Hopkins. He told me that one of my coronary arteries was 100% blocked, and the rest of the important ones were 90% blocked. I found myself listening carefully to Dr. B. Those are scary numbers.
Now, by the way, back in July I had a stress test. I passed the son of a bitch. My smoking is largely a thing of the past. I take Lipitor, and my cholesterol numbers are, actually, pretty good. How was this possible? I wondered. On he other hand, there was no arguing with Dr. B. What to do? I asked. Well, Dr. B sits in the coronary surgery chair at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, and he said he had to crack my chest open and fix the broken parts. Not much in the way of words to object to his proposal. Dr. B was clearly a man at the top of his game, and this guy has the gift of inspiring great confidence in his patients. (About the best thing a doc can do, when you think about it.) So, I agreed. I didn't even have to sign any release forms ("If he kills me, it's okay, and my estate won't sue the hospital..." that sort of thing). The crazy part was that I wasn't even very scared. Sure, I would have preferred to leave and have a drink and a smoke. but that wasn't an option.
Meanwhile, Dr. B had talked to my wife and told her that I was "a very sick man," but that "I think I can help him." Alex was having rather a stressful time, but when she next saw me I didn't catch any of that. So, I went to sleep.
You know, cigarettes are made for moments like this. They're good at steadying you down, but nobody offered me one. Pity, but about what you'd expect.
Next day. I met the gas-passers. Two of them, Dr. B's regular anesthesiologist, and a resident who's learning the business. I was scared of this. Why?
It happened down where I live. Some poor schlub was in the local hospital for major but routine surgery--gallbladder removal, I think--and the operation went as planned, except for one thing. the gas-passed knocked him out with Phenobarbital, paralyzed him with Pavulon and the surgeon started carving. But the Phenobarbital wore off, and the patient recovered consciousness in mid-procedure. Because of the Pavulon (a synthetic curare, a paralyzing agent) he couldn't scream or make any noise. He couldn't even go into shock, but the gas-passer neglected to hook up the nitrous oxide, and so he got to experience almost the entire procedure. They say he had a severe attitude problem in the recovery room. (Does Josef Mengele School of Medicine come to mind? Hell of an interrogation technique, when you think about it.) That possibility scared me, rather a lot, in fact. Irrational? Okay, I am not a Vulcan. But I slept that night, fairly well, I suppose.
(cont'd next page)
It has been a sad day for the Novellists and for his Readers worldwide.
As a fan since his first book, I had the luck to be able to exchange mail with him during ten years, and follow his professional life throught a forum, today closed.
In December 2006, Tom had his first heart attack, then very kindly posted the following message in the forum. I saved it for my archives. I believe it is worth being known, so voilà:
"Nothing particularly on topic--not that you guys ever let that stop you--but something that might be of passing interest to those who read my books.
I should probably be dead now. I have never written anything like that before, and in truth it feels melodramatic, since I never really felt all that bad. But five--or was it six?--Fridays ago, I felt a little punk. Took an a mile walk around NYC--a city I don't like very much--and came back to the hotel feeling a little tired. (Odd, I can usually walk all day long.) Woke up the next day, NY Times, breakfast, TV, another boring day kicked off. But my wife comes from NYC, and I go there to make her happy. So, another installment in the marriage contract.
Then something rather odd happened. I was sitting in the room, and the TV was on, probably to a news channel, and it started moving. Imagine sitting in the dead center of a movie theater, and the stuff on the screen starts moving left-to-right at high speed, like 20 RPM or so. Very strange. Stranger still, I didn't feel dizzy from it. I sat down to digest this phenomenon, and in due course, say about 90 seconds, it stopped. How very odd, I thought, then I forgot about it. But 20 minutes later it happened again, this time for maybe 30 seconds, and that made me think something was genuinely wrong. Maybe I should call my friend Terry, who fixed my eyes a few years ago. Good guy, good doc, now living in Florida. Shortly thereafter my wife called via her cell phone. She asked how I was doing and I replied that something odd had taken place, and I described it to her. Alex got excited. Inside of half an hour she was back in the hotel with me and planning a trip back to Baltimore. (She even thought about chartering a private ambulance, but common sense broke out, and though I settled on an SUV, I still think we would have been better off on the train, but my opinion as overruled.) Several hours later we left the hotel and drove down. Three to four hour trip that passed uneventfully. Every stop on the New Jersey turnpike I thought about getting some cigarettes, but for fear of Alex's reaction, I refrained. Ate Arthur Treacher's Fish & Chips, which I rather like, but it's a dead franchise operation. Pity. We made it to Baltimore, where we have a condo, and then Alex dragged me to the Johns Hopkins Hospital Emergency Room.
Alex had called ahead to a friend, named Curt. Curt is a pal, and something of a hero to me. Pediatric Oncologist. Crummy way to earn a living. Hell of a guy, brilliant physician/scientist. Superb doc. He was waiting when we showed up, and I was checked into the ER for a preliminary evaluation. The usual medical bullshit, answering the usual questions repeatedly to different physicians who nod, hem and haw a lot. Then they sent me off for various tests, the results of which were unremarkable as far as I could tell. So, I was checked into the hospital proper for observation. I was probably pretty dull to look at.
Next day the tests began in earnest. You bleed into test tubes (fortunately the troops at Hopkins who stick you are expert, and it doesn't hurt much) but the worst memory of this date was the MRI scan. You lay on your back and they slide you into a large plastic tube, about 4" from your nose while a machine looks into your body through physics I do not understand. (I'd later hear from a doc that his father-in-law, a Jewish chap, did this and called it the worst experience of his entire life. This guy was a concentration-camp survivor. He thought it worse than Bergen-Belsen. It wasn't pleasant, but no SS guys appeared to end my tenure on earth as "unworthy of life." What the hell. I have blue eyes.) No word ever on results. Toss in an echocardiogram. That was when things started getting iffy.
A couple of docs came into see me, one of whom I'll call Dr. B. Dr. B is an ordinary-looking chap, about two weeks younger than I am, I would later learn. He looks smart, but there are a lot of people like that at Hopkins. He told me that one of my coronary arteries was 100% blocked, and the rest of the important ones were 90% blocked. I found myself listening carefully to Dr. B. Those are scary numbers.
Now, by the way, back in July I had a stress test. I passed the son of a bitch. My smoking is largely a thing of the past. I take Lipitor, and my cholesterol numbers are, actually, pretty good. How was this possible? I wondered. On he other hand, there was no arguing with Dr. B. What to do? I asked. Well, Dr. B sits in the coronary surgery chair at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, and he said he had to crack my chest open and fix the broken parts. Not much in the way of words to object to his proposal. Dr. B was clearly a man at the top of his game, and this guy has the gift of inspiring great confidence in his patients. (About the best thing a doc can do, when you think about it.) So, I agreed. I didn't even have to sign any release forms ("If he kills me, it's okay, and my estate won't sue the hospital..." that sort of thing). The crazy part was that I wasn't even very scared. Sure, I would have preferred to leave and have a drink and a smoke. but that wasn't an option.
Meanwhile, Dr. B had talked to my wife and told her that I was "a very sick man," but that "I think I can help him." Alex was having rather a stressful time, but when she next saw me I didn't catch any of that. So, I went to sleep.
You know, cigarettes are made for moments like this. They're good at steadying you down, but nobody offered me one. Pity, but about what you'd expect.
Next day. I met the gas-passers. Two of them, Dr. B's regular anesthesiologist, and a resident who's learning the business. I was scared of this. Why?
It happened down where I live. Some poor schlub was in the local hospital for major but routine surgery--gallbladder removal, I think--and the operation went as planned, except for one thing. the gas-passed knocked him out with Phenobarbital, paralyzed him with Pavulon and the surgeon started carving. But the Phenobarbital wore off, and the patient recovered consciousness in mid-procedure. Because of the Pavulon (a synthetic curare, a paralyzing agent) he couldn't scream or make any noise. He couldn't even go into shock, but the gas-passer neglected to hook up the nitrous oxide, and so he got to experience almost the entire procedure. They say he had a severe attitude problem in the recovery room. (Does Josef Mengele School of Medicine come to mind? Hell of an interrogation technique, when you think about it.) That possibility scared me, rather a lot, in fact. Irrational? Okay, I am not a Vulcan. But I slept that night, fairly well, I suppose.
(cont'd next page)
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