The measure of a man
The actor Pete Postlethwaite is someone I have always admired, particularly for his Oscar nominated role in the Guildford Four film, In The Name Of The Father, and I was saddened to hear of his death from cancer in January this year.
I have just finished reading his memoir A Spectacle Of Dust, and was very moved by the chapters he wrote in the final weeks before his death. I would like to share a few extracts with you today.
‘I’m sorry to tell you that you have cancer,’ said the doctor.
A large, malignant tumour was growing on one of my kidneys, and urgent intervention was required. Nothing prepares you for that diagnosis. I sat there, impassive, watching the doctor’s lips move and hearing the words, but failing to compute the meaning.
Soon, however, my initial shock was replaced by wave after wave of optimism. ‘I’ll beat this bloody thing,’ I told myself. ‘I’m not going to let this stop me.’
It helped that I’d suffered from cancer 18 years before, when I’d had a testicle removed and recovered without much fuss. I’d even gone on to father a daughter afterwards. If I’d beaten it once, I could do so again — even though I was now 63.
The hospital booked me in for an operation to remove the kidney, and the doctors were reassuring in the weeks that followed. As far as I was concerned, I was cured.
I refused to allow a negative thought to enter my mind, preferring to keep focused on my family and the future.
To the wider world, I said nothing. First, you can’t start filming and then die in the middle of the movie, so an actor with cancer is uninsurable. And if you’re uninsurable, your career is over. But beyond that, I didn’t see why my cancer should become public property. I’d certainly never considered myself a celebrity.
(Pete’s last film role was as a gangster in Killing Bono, based on a book about being in a band that faltered in the shadow of U2)
There was a hush on set when I delivered a speech written specially for my final scene. It went straight to the heart of who I was and what I was about.
‘A word to the wise from an old man before you go. Remember only this: the measure of a man is what’s left when fame falls away.’
I’d been fighting hard, following doctors’ orders, keeping off the Guinness and following my dietitian’s advice. In many ways, I’d been the perfect patient, doing everything by the book and remaining highly motivated — but the cancer had somehow remained abstract.
(Pete’s treatment was no longer working)
Now, everything had changed. I suddenly became acutely aware of my own mortality.
The things that had seemed important before no longer were; the things that I’d worried about melted away. What really mattered was my love for my family, my friendships with other actors and my beliefs. My gratitude for the smallest kindness was amplified, as was my appreciation of nature and other people.
In short, I was profoundly grateful for the life that I still had.
During the afternoons, I sat on the terrace, observing the insects and birdlife that filled the skies. When days went well, it felt as though the heavens were opening and angelic choirs were singing.
I was humbled by the life I’d led and joyous about the fleeting, ephemeral moments that I’d once taken for granted. Instead of feeling jaded and ground down by my illness, I focused on the beauty of my world.
When auspicious news came from the hospital, I received it with the joy of a child on Christmas morning. When the news was more downbeat, I received it stoically.
Funny that I should no longer be acting, yet my life is as busy as it ever was. So many friends are coming to see me that it’s like being backstage on the last night of a successful play.
Morphine dulls the pain in my stomach, though sometimes it is like a hot knife. But there’s still time to revel in reminiscence as I revisit corners of my life.
It’s time to stop writing now. There’s a Christmas tree for Will to fetch, visitors to welcome and one last good time to be had.
My decline is insuperable, and I accept it with peace and equanimity. I know my family will miss me, and I will miss them. And that, in the end, is all that matters.
Pete Postlethwaite died on January 2 this year, 36 days before his 65th birthday. Extracted from A Spectacle Of Dust by Pete Postlethwaite, Orion © 2011 Pete Postlethwaite.
So poignant. So sad. Tears are blinding my reading of this excerpt. Yet I finish it knowing the ending. Survivor guilt creeps in to my mind once again. What a courageous man. Wish I knew him in person.
XOXO,
Jan
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I understand Jan, but then I think this was a man who lived his passions and that is a wonderful thing to be able to leave this life having done, don’t you think?
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Beautiful post, Marie. This man had so much wisdom and grace. Thank you for sharing this moving story.
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Wisdom and grace perfectly sums up the measure of this fine man indeed Beth
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Hi, Marie,
Isn’t that the way all of us would like to be able to handle the end of our lives? To be grateful for and appreciative of all that we have been given, to be at peace with the world and it’s coming to an end, while allowing room for sadness at the loss. Mature, graceful and inspirational. Thanks for sharing it.
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Absolutely Maire!
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Beautiful Marie,thanks for sharing.
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I think this is your first comment here Madeleine – so happy to read it 🙂
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That was very moving and so well written, thanks for sharing it and making us (me) think about what we have now.
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Thanks so much for your comment Dee..sometimes we do need the reminders, it’s true
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Thanks so much for sharing this wonderful’s man’s perspective, Marie. I too felt so much gratitude while I was actively dealing with my cancer. It amazes and heartens me to know that, even in the face of death, we can still experience the grace of overwhelming gratitude. Beautiful!
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🙂
lauren
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Lump in my throat reading this – so beautiful
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I got chills over here…
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Marie, this sounds like a wonderful book. For me the real question is what is the legacy we are all creating today and one day leave behind? Two things are for certain, everyone here was born and like all mankind we will one day die.
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Ah yes Luann – the question of what we live behind is a very powerful one indeed!
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Thank you for sharing this, Marie. This man was very wise. I was especially struck by his words after his diagnosis, “I sat there impassive, watching the doctors lips move, hearing the words, but failing to compute their meaning.” Such a commonly felt feeling upon diagnosis no matter who we are.
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Oh gosh yes Nancy, such a fellow feeling indeed!
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