(This is the second part of my essay about friend John Yoakam.  Part 1 is here.)

In March of last year I received a note from John.  He had tried to email me, but my email had come back as undeliverable.  So he wrote a snail mail note and said he’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  He directed me to a site called Caring Bridge, which allows people with serious illness to set up journal pages so that friends and family can follow their progress.  I signed up to receive journal updates from him and his partner, Gary.  I emailed him that Anne and I would think of him every day and send healing energy, vibes, sparkles (or whatever he believed in) his way.

For a year I read his account of the cancer journey.  The chemo, the radiation, the energy loss, the pain.  But also his commitment to teaching, the joy it was to work with students, the love and support of his many friends, springtime in Minnesota, his days on the Wisconsin farm, and always about Gary’s love and tender ministering to his changing needs.  It was heartbreaking.  And joyous.  And precious.

Usually John wrote the entries himself, but sometimes – when he was too sick, or overwhelmed – Gary would write an entry.  Shortly after his first round of chemo, John went to D.C. to present his research and wrote:

 My presentation on "Gay Men in Retirement" yesterday went well with about 40+ attending, filling the room. So many men attended that one of the women commented "Is it okay if girls come into this clubhouse?" I sprinkled my Power Point with humor, even after disclosing how my diagnosis had interrupted my research. [And they laughed too!] I've had two other attendees tell me that they had recently been diagnosed with cancer. We formed an instant caring bond for and with each other. 

It was his capacity for an “instant caring bond” that was so remarkable.  Really, when it came right down to it, we didn’t know each other all that well, had little in common, and corresponded rarely.  But every time I was with him I felt known, honored, and appreciated.  When John was with you, he was with you.

His journal at the Caring Bridge site was full of humor and optimism, despite what I know was a constant challenge.  After several weeks of chemo he wrote:

 I remain optimistic that there will be research breakthroughs with this disease as I saw with AIDS in the 1990s. In the meantime as the Reverend Mary Samuels said in her sermon yesterday at the First Universalist Church, I am "living the mystery" with this disease. But I'm not living with it alone. You are all with me on the journey; and I am blessed by your company. John 

He was unfailingly grateful to those who supported him with their presence, either in person or online.  Another of the themes that played often in his entries was his love of the farm in Wisconsin, and the joy of growing things.  Last year, in early spring he said:

 We drove to the Wisconsin farm yesterday to turn on the water, a rather bleak, cold, grey day, like the setting for a Cohn brothers ("Fargo") film. I flipped the switch and the water began to flow. Gary built a fire in the stove, and we took naps in the cozy living room. The farm season has begun. Can asparagus be far behind? John 

Then, more of his gratitude for friends mixed with love of his

farm in his journal a few weeks later:

And he wasn’t afraid to mix some fun with his farming interests. Later in May he reported:

 On Sunday we had a great Asparagus Festival at the farm. Two new Asparagus Queens were selected and crowned after telling creation myths which incorporated asparagus, of course, in their stories. 

In July we heard about berry season (again, friends and farming):

 I had several rounds of berry picking last weekend: currants and gooseberries overlooking the Rush River (a Julie Andrews, "the hills are alive" kind of moment). My former colleague from Neighborhood Counseling Center Days (1970s), Eilleen Collard, braved the mosquitoes, and thorns for another round of black raspberry picking with me at the farm.  

We all followed him through that year as he balanced living the best life he could

manage against a backdrop of chemo treatments, radiation and dwindling energy.  He took us with him when he handed out rainbow tassels at the St. Ben’s GLBT “Lavender Graduation.”  He talked about his struggle when the pancreatic damage caused him to become diabetic.  He trained all summer last year so that he and Gary could ride bicycles in the “Purple Ride” against pancreatic cancer in September.  (He and Gary recruited fourteen riders and raised over $2000 toward the charity.)  He dressed up on Halloween in a black t-shirt with astrology pictures of Capricorn on the front, and Cancer on the back, “A Capricorn with cancer.”

Late in January of this year, he was again admitted to the hospital.  Gary, always amazed at his rapport with the hospital staff, wrote:

 Nurses who had worked with John but who were assigned to other stations this evening were popping in to say hello. They all beamed when they saw him sitting up, looking in-the-pink and free of tubes. Even in his most difficult moments, John has been sweet and kind to all of his caregivers and they've responded in kind. 

February marked the one-year anniversary of his diagnosis.  He reflected back on his passage through his illness and said:

Gratitude.  And a generosity of spirit throughout his illness.  I just couldn’t get over that.  It never wavered.  Last month, John had another crisis and ended up in the hospital.  Gary told us:

 It's obviously been a trying weekend but, as always, John has been patient, sweet and kind to everyone around him. He expresses gratitude when symptoms are relieved rather than complaining about procedures that are scary or painful. He continues to astonish me with the openness of his heart and his eagerness to connect with people. And we're both in awe of the support and love we receive from friends and family. Thank you, thank you! 

Back home after the hospitalization, he celebrated St. Patrick’s Day baking scones and Irish shortbread.  His journal, as ever, pointing to friendships, good food, and the daily challenges.

            I asked my friend Nona, a wonderful card artist, to make a card for John.  I asked her to do something with berries and asparagus.  Here is the card she made:

            I sent the card to John, and in about two weeks I got back another handmade card thanking me for the one I sent him.  His was a photo of a budding tulip, just barely coming out of its leafy protection and it’s entitled, “All Will Be Well.”  John explained that the card was “a gift to me from a monk from the St. John’s community who came to visit me last Thursday.  He brought me a dozen cards, a variety of teas, a loaf of Foccacia, 3 cinnamon bagels all wrapped up in a basket, like Little Red Riding Hood’s.” 

Friends and food. 

He asked about my life and whether I was Irish, given the St. Pat’s holiday.  Then he wrote, “I don’t know how much longer I have to live, but I can say that the quality of my life – due in large part to the support and love of friends – has given me a rich sense of belonging.”  A rich sense of belonging.  For someone who spent his life helping other gay and lesbian people feel as though they belonged, that little comfort was well deserved.