August Farewell – The Last Sixteen Days of a Thirty-Three-Year Romance by David G. Hallman

It was August 7, 2009, when the doctor stood at the foot of the hospital bed and with a deliberation that was both efficient and compassionate, looked directly at David Hallman and his partner Bill Conklin and said, "Our diagnosis is pancreatic cancer, stage four." In his thoughtful and deeply personal memoir, David Hallman narrates the sixteen days after Bill was diagnosed with terminal cancer and intersperses vignettes drawn from their thirty-three years together as a gay couple. 

With poignancy, humor, and affection, David describes the excruciating intensity of caring for Bill during those final two weeks while reminiscing about the joys and challenges of their life together. During their lengthy relationship, both were deeply committed to social and environmental justice, loved the arts and traveling, and embraced faith and spirituality—values that were never more important to them than during the final days of Bill's life. As David sat at Bill's bedside, he shares how the memories of their great love provided him strength and helped him prepare Bill for the end. 

August Farewell offers an intimate portrait of a loving relationship brought to an abrupt end and affirms the power of love in the face of adversity.

​David G. Hallman worked for more than thirty years on the national staff of The United Church of Canada carrying a wide range of social justice responsibilities. Environmental ethics was the major component of his portfolio during his career.

August Farewell is available from UCRD.

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The modern hospital bed is a marvellous invention. The nurse pulls the plug out of the wall socket, taps the foot brakes to release them, and wheels Bill out into the corridor. No need to awkwardly transfer from bed into a wheelchair or other mobility device. I scurry to catch up after remembering to retrieve Bill’s valuables. People distracted by crises apparently make easy prey for pickpockets and skulking thieves—who’d have thought.

The X-ray technician is laughing on the phone as we enter. Bill takes that as his cue. Perfect setting for his joke-du-jour.

As soon as she hangs up, Bill declares, “I have a joke for you.” No hello. No is this going to hurt? Just right to the point.

I’m feeling a little awkward. This is a busy hospital. There is likely a list of critically ill patients scheduled for X-rays today. And here my lover is spending precious minutes telling a joke while the high-priced technology sits idly waiting. But I learned long ago not to interrupt Bill when in full flight, correct him in public, or kick him under the table. Such gestures were always counterproductive with him, to my usual embarrassment.

I only kicked Bill under the table once.

When we first started living together thirty-three years ago, we both had sets of friends who were anxious to meet and pass judgment on the new boyfriend. We were later to recognize that a couple of his friends and a couple of mine had fancied themselves as potential partners for each of us, so they were none too excited about the newcomer.

One evening around the this time, we were having dinner at the apartment of a friend of mine who was expounding rather pretentiously on a subject about which Bill knew a great deal more than my friend. Eventually, Bill had had enough and told our dinner host that he didn’t know what he was talking about. They started to argue. I, wanting my new boyfriend to make a good impression on my friends, nudged his foot under the table. I thought that that was a universally understood signal for shut up. But no, Bill continued on dismantling my friend’s logic with ever more searing critiques. So I tapped his leg harder. Actually, I suppose it qualified as an under-table kick, at which point Bill turned to me and said, “Don’t kick me under the table. I can say whatever I want. Just because we are boyfriends doesn’t mean that you own me or can control me.”

Right. Lesson learned.

After the X-ray is finished and the technician thanks Bill for the new joke, she pages an orderly to deliver us to the next testing site. Bill’s bed is wheeled to a distant wing in the hospital and we are placed in the corridor queue for a CAT scan. There are several patients ahead of us, but the line moves pretty expeditiously and within fifteen minutes or so a technician comes into the hall and asks Bill if he is William Conklin. This time I am not allowed to go into the room with him but am directed to a nearby waiting room.

I wonder if he is telling her the dead duck joke.

For the first time today, Bill and I are separated. I have nothing to do but sit and wait. And think.

I replay the day’s activities in my mind. It has been frenetic since Bill’s early morning wake-up call. Because of the pace, I have not digested the implications of the activities. We are here at the hospital because Bill’s doctor was concerned about the most recent tests results. We are now in the medical imaging department because the emergency room doctor was concerned about what we told her about Bill’s recent history and about what she saw when she examined him.

Maybe we are finally going to get some solid answers as to what is going on with Bill.

But now as I sit here wondering what the CAT scan may show, I find myself having qualms about whether I really want to know after all.