December 2, 2015
Dear Kathleen, Sarah and Lynn,
Please forgive my delay in writing. You have all been very much on my mind these last few weeks, as has of course, Dick. I hope that during these difficult days and weeks you have been surrounded by love and by all the amazing memories of Dick’s love for you, and for life.
On Tuesday morning weeks ago, which turned out to be the morning of the day Dick died, I was sitting in the clinic with one of my dearest patients, a patient who Dick had handed down to me when he left the clinic. The patient was pure Dick – an older African American man with a forty year history of being in prison and enough anger at the world to rock one’s faith in it. Dick told me a small amount about his medical history and then said: “He’s a great guy, you’ll love him,” when he passed him on to me. The first day I met him, he was screaming at everyone, including me. In retrospect, he was furious at losing Dick – one of the few people who had believed in him. I remember sitting through the patient’s tirade that day, steeling myself by repeating Dick’s words like a mantra: “He’s a great guy, you’ll love him.” Over time, as I built this gentleman’s trust, I realized that Dick was (of course, as he usually was) absolutely right.
The patient, with Dick’s help, had rebuilt his shattered life. With treatment for his substance use and his grief, he had met and married a wonderful woman who could see him for what he was and had devoted his life to counseling and advocating for young African American men in trouble with the law. Even though (or maybe because) this patient still erupts in anger at the slightest perceived slight, I have grown to admire him and look forward to our visits. That Tuesday morning, we had a regular visit, where the man was dealing with having been part of a traumatic accident that led to an interaction with the police. I was asking him about that, trying to comfort him and empathize with all the many ways in which that must have been hard. At the end of the visit, the patient sees on our desk, a flyer that says “Richard H. Fine People’s Clinic” and he looks at me and says “Is that Dick Fine?” Our visit was over, and I had two patients waiting, but I sat back down and listened as he asked after Dick and then launched into a story of how Dick was the first person to really believe in him and how meeting Dick was one of the most important things to ever happen to him. We sat together in the clinic for a long while discussing Dick, sharing stories of how wonderful he was and what he had taught us and meant to us.
I had wanted to write to Dick (the patient asked me to send his love) but later that night or the next morning, before I had written, I heard that Dick had died.
I wish that you could have been there, because this patient so eloquently expressed so much of what we have all been feeling
Dick taught me, and so many of us, to see the beauty in the most unlikely people. He taught us to recognize both suffering and oppression and to always strive to be on the right side of it, no matter how the rest of the world saw it or thought of you for doing so. He taught us that gentleness sometimes lies buried in rough exteriors and to always look beyond the exteriors. He taught us to sit with suffering but to fight actively and loudly against oppression.
Dick was one of my most important teachers and I was blessed to have him as a friend. He was always leaving books, articles and other such things for me, with his trademark Post-its, for things he thought may be of interest. (They always were!)
Thank you for sharing Dick with all of us – his patients, his students, his colleagues, over the years. His influence on all of us was profound. We all miss him very much, but know that he will live on in all of us who he influenced so profoundly.
May all your memories be a comfort to you, and may we all lead lives with as much meaning and joy as did Dick.
With love,
Margo
