Deep Waters Run Still

The Schwartzes—Gen and me—and a couple I will call the Wilsons have been friends for nearly a half century. I first came to know Don Wilson as a careful, highly competent general surgeon. Early on, I was put off by what I considered to be his pre-Baconian notions of what constitutes the scientific method, but regardless, we became good friends. Over the years, our friendship evolved into a comfortable intimacy, the more so as the ranks of our social circle became thinned by incapacity or death. At present, Don is 93 years old, 11 years my senior.

We had fun. Don remained as thin as a stick while I gradually developed an impressive belly. One day at the beach, we had our picture taken, standing side by side. We trumpeted to one and all that together we made a perfect 10! We confronted intimations of mortality without panic. My customary greeting was, “Hey, Don, how come you're still alive?”

With the passage of time, we all became subject to the foibles of advancing age, but our minds remained essentially intact. (I often had occasion to recall the story of the professor who, on arising in the morning, would finger his toothbrush: If …