In May 2024, I went to Venice with a dozen or so friends for the Biennale.  On the morning after we arrived, my good friend Stewart suffered a severe stroke. Emergency services carried him down the steep stairs and into an ambulance boat. A few days later, I visited him in the hospital with Lisa, his wife. The prognosis was not good. They had removed a section of his skull to reduce swelling and the left side of his brain showed zero activity. The doctor cautioned us not to hope, that there was high risk of infection and death, and little likelihood of regaining any function or awareness.

After returning to our rented apartment, I wrote the following to the signal group that had formed to support Lisa and share reports of Stewart’s condition.
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I just read Juke’s post and… patience, at the moment, is all that we have.

I spent a few hours with Stewart and with Lisa yesterday. There is sadness and I cried my share of tears, turning away in case he would somehow see me crying. The uncertainty is huge and all-encompassing. The reality of Stewart in that bed, surrounded by machines that breathe for him, nourish him, and generate an endless stream of data and graph lines and stats. Nothing is realer.

I went in knowing the same as you with the added experience of being with the crew here. Their amazingness, and everyone else near and far that is pitching in, I do not need to tell you. And Lisa… there are no words for her fortitude and compassion.

Being with Stewart, holding his hands and rubbing his feet… it’s him. Our guy. From firsthand, now, I believe. I am uneasy about outcomes, as are we all, but he’s there. He twitches his eyelids and occasionally takes a deep breath. Whether that is Stewart or the machines, I refuse to parse. He’s hazy and not about to grin out at you and reach for a hug, no, but many times I could imagine him opening his eyes. Lisa says that he is doing his work wherever he is, and taking the time he needs, and I am on board with that.

It is confusing because except for the you-know-what, he looks strong and fine and dandy. And, I might add, exceptionally clean-shaven. I talked to him about all sorts of things… sometimes it felt one-sided, sometimes it did not. Some of that was me, perhaps, but I absolutely 100% plan to ask him about it on a porch somewhere, sometime. What he heard, what he did not. And by that I mean on a porch in this world and no other.

It is a slow roll. The neuro chief is solid and smart and through her tiredness and professional demeanor and Italian accent – she cares. The hospital is top-notch. The equipment is, to my non-expert eyes, next gen. He receives about twenty different medications and vitamins and nutrition and whatall dripped or pumped into him. It is remarkable… a stray American visitor has an incident abroad and they have pulled him into their medical embrace and, thus far, are giving care without hesitation or reservation.

We cannot know where he is and we cannot know much else until things change so, yes, patience. And love. Lisa played him voice messages that people left, the usual things that people say when they don’t know what to say except I love you in whatever words and in-jokes they have at hand. The wishes shine through: come back, heal, we’re here when you come around. We are with you and for you. The distance and the ocean do not much matter compared to the love that is surging his way. I told Stewart that I was holding a thread for him to follow if that would help and he will have a forest of threads to choose from.

This does not count as info, or a report, or medical update. I just want to express for those too far to visit that, in the room, Stewart Harris feels there. Very much, very seriously, there. We could split hairs til forever about what that means but please do not despair, not now, not for a long while. Think thoughts and send messages for people to read, voice recordings for him to hear and grab onto. And for Lisa, whatever and whenever she needs. (Hi Lisa!)

Lots of love, y’all.