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15 April 1943
Robert's 65th birthday!
Long discussion with Dr. H.O. Pfister, the Medical Director of the sanitarium, about Robert's physical condition. In the middle of March he'd been taken to the regional hospital in Herisau with an intestinal paralysis; the doctors diagnosed a cancerous tumor in the lower large intestine, which could only be removed by a risky operation.
Robert had accepted his illness as though it affected someone else. The advice of the doctors for an operation, and the agreement of his sisters, collide with a stiff-necked refusal from Robert. Since his condition improved after a few days in the hospital, Robert was returned to the sanitarium, where his condition continued to improve.
In the mornings he helps the nurses tidy up his ward, so that in his usual afternoon work time he can clean lentils, beans and chestnuts, or glue paper bags. He tries to create the highest possible pile and is miffed if he's interrupted. During his time off he likes to read the yellowed tabloids, or old books. He's never shown any interest in artistic activities, says Dr. Pfister. Toward the doctors, the nurses and staff, and other patients, he cultivates a deep-rooted suspicion that he cleverly hides under a ceremonial courtesy. Anyone who doesn't keep the proper distance risks being growled at.
I brought Robert a few birthday gifts, which he set aside indifferently. Then, scarcely after we left the sanitarium grounds he asked why I had spent so much time with Dr. Pfister. I told him we had talked about mutual friends, doctors in Zurich. This seemed to satisfy him but during our morning's walk--to Degersheim and Mogelsberg im Untertoggenburg--he spoke only monosyllables. He didn't answer my gently-introduced questions about an operation. I left that subject to avoid putting him in a worse mood.
After lunch we scrambled up a hill near Herisau and sat in the sun in the garden of a pub with three bottles of beer. He enjoyed it there and we chatted with the waitress, who rattled on like a sewing machine. Afterward we visited a pastry shop, where he, with great delight, polished off eight little tarts.
When we separated he alluded to his sickness: "There are always troubles in life and thus is the good most readily distinguished from the bad. Trouble is the best teacher."