Bart and I had a beautiful wedding ceremony on September 27th, 2003, at the San Francisco Zoo. Although September is typically a warm time in the Bay Area, that day was initially unusually foggy. But just before the ceremony, the haze lifted. Our pre-wedding photos were taken in the penguin enclosure, our totem animal as a couple, slightly tongue-in-cheek coming from the Lyle Lovett song, “Penguins are so sensitive to my needs.” We were married in a glorious early evening in an outdoor ceremony overlooking a pond with frogs bellowing in the background. After the ceremony but just before we headed over to the carousel for the cocktail hour, the reverend leaned in and asked us for the wedding license. We looked at each other and paused. Neither of us realized that we needed one, despite my checklists and his profession.
After the wedding and a short mini-moon, we finally got our wedding licenses and met again with Rev. Capper. He suggested that we still could be married by our ceremony, but we just needed to back date the signatures on the license and we were good to go.
Bart, being the earnest person that he is, wouldn’t do it. He insisted that we couldn’t back date something as important as a marriage. To be honest, he couldn’t even backdate a check. So, while we still celebrate our anniversary in September, we were technically married in line at City Hall in downtown Oakland, California on a fine morning in October.
I share this story because it says so much about Bart. I could go on about how loving he was. How much he cared for his family. How truly and awesomely generous he was in helping friends, neighbors, and family. How he could be clever and funny and insanely intelligent even if sometimes a bit infuriating. But if I said these things, I could be talking about anyone here. Because we are so blessed to have in our midst co-conspirators in life who are all so kind, giving, and brilliant.
As crazy as it felt to be speaking at Bart’s services, I wanted a chance to chisel out the specific and nuanced ways of Bartness.
Bart was so earnest that he spent months researching whether to buy a Toyota or a Honda minivan. He sought countless reviews and the precise carrying case for new hair clippers. He took 5 minutes to properly tie his shoes …. and only after everyone else was ready to walk out the door. Bart cleaned a rental car before returning it. Even Bart’s sense of humor was dry and precise, specifically clever and unexpected, even into his final days. This wit of his was how we knew he was still with us.
Bart’s precision made him an excellent scientist, lawyer, and medical researcher, but there was also a side to him that could be drifting in the clouds, or lost in the moment.
Bart could pass a morning with his guitar at the kitchen table and take forever to get out of the house because he had to find the right version of a song as a back drop for getting ready. There was always music playing in our home…and during his showers – bluegrass, folk, R and B. Bart played in several bands throughout his life, and many of those bandmates and co-musicians from the various era are here. His biggest unfilled regret was never learning to play the banjo.
Bart’s thirst for knowledge was extreme. He loved all kinds of non-fiction and was the only person I know who read all 1000+ pages of the Rise and Fall of the Third Reich…for fun. Throughout his illness he read legal books, history books, and worked on teaching himself coding. Bart couldn’t pass up a used book sale, and quickly filled his study with books that he intended to work his way through during his retirement. And Bart wasn’t all seriousness – he also loved spy thrillers.
Bart’s other orientation to the world was nature, especially state and national parks. Yosemite and the Monterey Coast were our special getaways in California and he sought to feel at home in New England by finding new places to hike. But, because he was Bart, a common topic of conversation on a hike was about wishing that he did more hiking. When we were scheduling a final family trip this summer, it was to see the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone; a trip he never got to take.
Bart reveled in the design of great products and spaces, so much so that he could go on way too long about it. He loved the intersection of art with practicality and took an unexpected amount of pleasure from a well-designed coffee mug or the perfect cast iron pan.
Despite all of these demonstrations about Bart’s earnestness and serious nature, he was also strangely light about the weight of the world. Indeed, this was the very trait that drew me to him in the beginning. He was always the one to remind me to let things go, not sweat the small stuff, just let it be.
On July 27th, 2017, Bart and I took a one-night get away to Boston. We walked all over the city, had tiramisu and Italian food in the north end, watched a play in the State House, and enjoyed an early morning breakfast on Charles Street. Bart insisted that we take a boat tour of the harbor because, even though he had already done it, he wanted for me to see it, and wanted for us to experience it together.
That day was Bart’s 53rd birthday and we had an extended lunch in an outside table under an umbrella while it rained and then blazed sun. He had a beer and me a prosecco and we shared an extra side of fries. During this time we talked about moving to Lexington, what a big transition it was, and how after two years we finally felt settled. We discussed how grateful we were to discover the amazing community of Lexington, where we were so welcomed and so quickly connected with people who were bright and smart, kind and humble. We discussed how now, beginning our third year on the East Coast, we were going to become more involved, invite people more to come to our home and also out for hikes and concerts. We reminisced about our friends and community in California. How much we missed them and still felt them to be critical in our lives. Bart was notorious for feeling deeply connected to people from various eras in his life but not so great about communicating with them. Bart adored his mother, sister, and the rest of his extended family. He was excited to be back in range on the east coast to participate again in family get togethers. As we lunched, he talked about his own intent to reach out more, with simple texts, phone calls, and visits, and to bridge our lives to be more present with people far and near. We discussed giving back more, charities that we wanted to donate to and to begin spending time with. We talked about professional goals, and what we wanted to do with the house. I can still hear Bart saying, “Ever since we’ve met, we’ve always been building toward something. We have finally arrived, and hopefully we can now start to just live.”
And then two days later, Bart was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. For a while I was convinced that this dichotomy alone was evidence that he would defy the odds with his diagnosis…. Because dying now would just be a crappy narrative. But, alas, life is not a movie, and cancer does not care.
Bart kept the cancer largely private for the first 9 months because he wanted to protect life as we knew it for as long as possible. For me this was hard. I felt a wall divide me from daily life, where inside my heart was crushing out of sadness and fear of what lie ahead. I was busy with days at Dana Farber, treatments, tests, another deadline … but on the outside, I had to keep a light heart for the kids, and I was covering Bart’s increasing absences. But I also understand the gift that Bart gave us with this time. He gave us 9 months to truly appreciate the gift of normal. This was treasured time for us to live our normal lives together in technicolor, appreciating the privilege of being able to go to a job, make dinner, and be able to eat it. We also developed deeper connections with family and friends that rotated through our own bed and breakfast on Grant Street. I think it says so much about Bart that, when faced with a likely terminal diagnosis, there was not really anything else he felt driven to see or place to go… no big change in his life was needed. He truly was living the life he wanted to live already. He was grateful for health, family, friends, music, a job with meaning.
After Bart’s fourth line of treatment failed, his health began to decline. Bart had a health crisis in July, when we almost lost him. He spent his very next birthday recovering from a dramatic surgery in the hospital dreaming of when he would be released to suck on ice chips, yearning for the privilege of a simple cup of iced tea. Bart eventually regained his strength from that event but was never able to get ahead of the cancer again. What followed was a dramatic backwards bunny hop, where we’d take one step forward followed by two and sometimes three steps back. The whole time Bart was realistic but also defiant and scientific, leveraging his deep knowledge of biology, pharmaceuticals, and clinical trials to find hope. I am confident that if anyone could will their way out of cancer, it would have been Bart.
It’s hard to describe the horror and beauty of living this way for an extended period of time. The pain and sorrow of seeing all that he endured physically. Cancer isn’t neat and tidy – it is ruthless, unpredictable, unforgiving, messy. Bart had a heroic resolve that kept him working and parenting all the way up until the end. Who else could do this?
I always knew that Bart had strength of character… such as when we were married in line at City Hall, I giggled for a minute at the circumstance, and he reminded me of how important, serious, and special this moment should be. But when I saw how Bart endured his fear and suffering without complaint or self-pity, how he asserted himself in to his children’s lives with whatever energy and circumstance his body would allow, and witnessed how committed he was to not letting his work colleagues down and to providing for our family whatever the cost of his own discomfort, I saw a deeper, more dimensioned version of the man I had always loved. His courage was bottomless. No matter how weak Bart’s body became, those of us around him could still draw strength from his own strength and conviction. This gift he left us will fuel us forever.
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During this time I learned how simple it could be to find meaning in life. How little we really need. How few words sometimes need to be said. I learned what it felt like to be wholey and unequivocally on the same team with another human. I learned about the kindness in bearing witness to pain without flinching. I learned how actions speak more than words. … about the importance of taking a breath and finding a soft voice before responding when tired. I learned what an honor it can be to care for those you love. In a life where we are trained to offer our help to others, I also learned about the steel strength it requires to ask for and to accept help. For these reasons, I am forever changed. I am softer and slower… and not just because I’m getting older.
Friends and family who joined us during this period often expressed their own gratitude to being a part of Bart’s journey. I think this is because when we were together, we reveled in an experience of intensive intention. Our focus was around a higher order of connection and love. This intensive real kindness takes on an energy that hovers in the air and binds those experiencing it. This buzz of goodness is a marvel of life that we have been awash in.
I believe this unreserved goodness was a reflection of Bart’s own intention and integrity. All of us have our own demons, foibles, and mistakes. Bart saw people in his life through a lens that overlooked shortcomings, and instead delighted in what made each person unique. I think people loved to be near him because they could feel themselves reflected through his forgiving, generous, and truly appreciative eyes.
When someone has passed, it can be tempting to look upon all of their strengths and forget their foibles. Bart wasn’t perfect. He was sometimes socially clueless and distracted. He could be austere as a parent. He could sometimes get on his soapbox. And, at times, it was really annoying to have to wait for him to tie his shoes after everyone was ready. But now that he’s gone, it’s clear that these things don’t matter.. and also that they never did. Like most of us, his intention was always true. And if we could all use this criteria to be a little softer to the foibles around us, I think this world would be a nicer place.
For Bart, the big questions in life were simple. He didn’t sweat the small stuff. He was never insecure and didn’t worry what people thought. He navigated board rooms and bleachers, subways and sidelines, all with equal ease. Bart might have over-studied the dimensions of a perfect laptop bag, but when it came to the big questions in life, he wasn’t plagued by second guesses or grey areas. You just do what is right, and if that’s unclear, you just do your best. Bart was not spiritual or mystical. He was sad to die, but not scared about it. Over the course of his illness, we talked quite openly and practically about changes in his health, the future.
Bart was most sad about not being there for his kids and getting to know who they would come to be. He reveled in each of their unique personalities and beamed with pride when he told others about Tessa’s math club and quirky crafts, about Tucker’s basketball and the sweet funny thing Tucker just came up with. These two magnificent children were the sun of his solar system, and nearly every decision of his life revolved around their wellbeing and their future …. even if they didn’t always know it.
I am not so sure about karma anymore. Because after all of Bart’s inherent goodness and earnestness, it’s hard to see how he was due the cruel fate that became him. I also know that we couldn’t have possible done anything to deserve the scale kindness and generosity that has been shown to our family. It can bring me to my knees.
I wish more than anything that I would have to wait while Bart put on his shoes again. I cannot. Instead, to my sweet love, I say, Go in peace. You did good. You were more than anyone could have expected or dreamed. We feel complete in your love. Be free.
To all of you, I don’t have words to express the appreciation and gratitude I feel. We are together here, all hovering in goodness. Thank you.