Thanks, Will, and thanks Jay, Pat, Jim, Kathy, Terry and Craig. And a big hello to Eleanor, Doug and Nancy, Linda, Rob, David and Astrid, and Charlotte and James, two of the grandchildren of Hardy and Eleanor who are here.
From the moment I first met Hardy more than three decades
ago, on a visit to the Hendren home in Duxbury, I knew I was in the presence of
an extraordinary human being. Whether by means of magic, divine intervention or
just luck, a relationship was born that would prove professionally rewarding to
me.
My 1993 biography of Hardy, “The Work of Human Hands,”
launched my non-fiction book career – a career that also brought me, thanks to
Hardy, to Walt Lillehei, father of Craig and the man who pioneered open-heart
surgery, as recounted in my book “King of Hearts.”
But as great as the professional rewards have been, the
personal rewards have been an even bigger blessing – one that everyone who has
known the Hendrens has also shared. Eleanor and Hardy became dear friends,
opening their lives to me and my family, including my son, Calvin, who is
Hardy’s godson. We shared many laughs and stories and, as time went on, lots of
memories.
So let me get a bit deeper into the personal.
And by personal, I mean the person who was William Hardy
Hendren III.
In medical circles, this person earned the nickname of
“Hardly Human” for what might correctly be called the superpowers he took with
him into the operating room.
Here was a surgeon who could fix the unfixable and cure the
incurable, sometimes during marathon operations that lasted 24 hours or more.
Hardy saved and bettered untold thousands of lives during one of the most
amazing runs in the history of the healing sciences. We will hear from [the father of] one of
his patients, Keith Fox, in a moment.
But while “Hardly Human” works well enough as a description
of the surgeon, there is a better one, I think, to describe the person.
And that is “Wholly Human” -- as in “thoroughly,”
“completely,” or, as my trusty Roget’s Thesaurus declares, “in full measure.”
Allow me to give you a sense of that full measure.
I’ll start with Saltines. As Jim O’Neill just told us, hardy loved Saltines.
One Sunday long ago, I was visiting Hardy in Duxbury. Eleanor
was away, but she had left freshly made soup, which Hardy and I were eager to
eat for lunch. Hardy ladled a bowl for each of us, then announced he wanted
Saltines to accompany the soup.
For some reason he did not explain, he wanted them warm.
So he put a bunch of them, still encased in cellophane, into
the microwave and pressed on.
Full-power on.
I watched as the crackers circled inside the machine,
horrified but not saying anything. This person was a master of technology, at
least of the medical kind, so maybe he knew something I didn't.
He did not.
Soon enough, the cellophane ignited and we had a blazing fire.
Smoke billowed and alarms sounded.
Hardy looked momentarily puzzled, but then, always cool
under pressure, he removed the crackers with an oven mitt and walked them to
the sink, where he extinguished the flames.
We sat down then to eat Eleanor's soup. The Saltines this
time were room-temperature.
Hardy, of course, taught generations of doctors. I
had no desire to become one, except, perhaps, vicariously, so there was nothing
he would have taught me there.
But he did teach or re-teach me many things – among them,
the importance of truth and generosity and the need to sometimes laugh at one’s
self. Every time I retold the Saltines story, Hardy always roared.
Another lesson I learned from Hardy was how to cut a
sandwich with scissors.
This lesson occurred during another long day at Children's
when, between operations, we went down to the cafeteria to get something to
eat. We both ordered sandwiches – I forget what kind – and brought them back to
the surgeon’s lounge.
Which was no dining room. No knives, forks or spoons that I could
see.
The sandwiches were large and I was mentally wrestling with
the mess I would make tearing mine apart when Hardy came to the rescue. He
happened to be carrying a pair of his gold-plated surgical scissors – the ones
that Dorothy Enos so carefully kept – and with them, he cut my sandwich, then
his, and began to eat.
I was amazed – so amazed that I didn’t ask if the scissors were
clean, but trusting Hardy – you could always trust Hardy – I knew they were.
At home, I have since cut sandwiches with kitchen shears,
and also string cheese and haddock filets -- sometimes to the amusement of
observers but usually with a look that says, “Have you lost your blanking
mind?”
To which I say: "I learned from the best."
As in, the best person.
I mentioned Hardy and Eleanor's generosity, and I
could cite many examples of their largesse, but lacking the time, here is one:
They offered their house to me for a week when they were away so that I could
complete the final draft of "King of Hearts" in writerly solitude. It
was an incredible week, and not just creatively, for I had the honor of
sleeping in a guestroom that had been their late daughter's bedroom.
Let me close with one last story of Hardy, this wholly human
person. While researching and writing "The Work of Human Hands," I
spent many days in Duxbury going through Hardy's records and documents and
photos. On one of those days -- it was a fine early autumn day not unlike today
-- he asked if I wanted a ride on the back of his motorcycle.
I did.
We headed out from King Caesar Road, destination undeclared.
After a while, Hardy turned off the main road into a church parking lot. We got
off his bike and he led me to the cemetery in back.
And there was the grave of Sandy, his and Eleanor's first
child, who became a nurse and worked with Hardy at The General when he was
chief of pediatric surgery here.
We stood in silence and I was saddened thinking about the
tragedy that Hardy and Eleanor and their other children had experienced.
The only other time I have been to that cemetery was
this past March, when, after Hardy's funeral, his ashes were placed in the
ground next to Sandy, who died of complications of diabetes in 1984 at the age
of 37, here in Mass. General Hospital.
During that March service, I was privileged to throw sand
from Eleanor and Hardy's favorite beach onto Hardy. And I, like others, was
invited to say a few words.
On the verge of tears, I recalled what Hardy said one time
when I asked how he never tired during those crazy long days in his OR, where
he was working his wonders.
He said: "Don't forget, there's a great big rest at the
end."
Rest in peace, Hardy. The world will never see another
person like you.
W. Hardy Hendren III, M.D. Memorial Celebration
MGH O’Keefe Auditorium September 24, 11 AM – 1 PM
Program Photo History of the Life of
W. Hardy Hendren, III
Welcome
Keith Lillemoe, MD
American College of Surgeons Icons in Surgery Video
Remarks/Recollections Jay Vacanti, MD
(In the video)
Medical Patricia
Donahoe MD
James
O’Neill, MD
Kathryn Anderson, MD
Terry
Hensle, MD
Craig Lillehei, MD
Author
G. Wayne Miller
Patient Keith Fox
Family William
G. Hendren, MD
Minister Father
Daniel Dice
“Thanks
for the Memories”
Closing
remarks
Allan Goldstein, MD
Retire to Russell Museum for reception 1 – 2 pm
No comments:
Post a Comment