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The Anatomy Lesson: The Sudden Death of Eddy

Eddy lived next door. He was under 5 feet tall, less than 90 pounds, and for many years, in a state of chronic heart failure. He was a very quiet man. I was captivated by his hands, claw-like and skeletal. They spoke in a language of gesture, as a conversation in an alphabet of bones…

...We evolved a working rhythm. He would hold his hand up, steady as he could. I’d say "turn please" and "turn please" until one day he suddenly said, "it’s too much work to live." And he let go. His hand dropped. His head dropped. I felt the rattle in his throat. I felt his breath, as if my breath, as if exhaled into flight. As a bird thrust into flight. While I photographed him, Eddy died. Expiration is more precise a word than death. What was left was suddenly leaden. His skewered mouth, contracting, even before my eyes, was sculpture. He had become sculpture.

Eddy’s death was as matter-of-fact as his skeletal speech. As deliberate as the ordinary actions of his daily life, such as putting on a shirt, or brushing teeth or tying up parcels with a string.

I understood his death as a shared experience. I was privileged with this, his final and extraordinary gift of self – stunning and complete. It was generous act.