Social media is a cold world!!!
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I didn't really get into M*A*S*H when I was a kid because it was always a signal when I heard that music that my father was going to kick us off the TV, but this is really cool. We should all strive to be a friend like this to someone
“My Hands Shake, David… But My Heart Doesn’t” — The Day Alan Alda Flew Across the Country for His Friend
In 2017, David Ogden Stiers was living alone in Oregon when he heard the words no one wants to hear:
bladder cancer.
No wife.
No children.
No one to drive him to his first chemo.
The night before treatment, he called one person just to talk.
“Alan, I start chemotherapy tomorrow,” he said quietly. “First session.”
“What time?” Alan asked.
“Nine in the morning. But I’m not asking you for anything. You’re all the way in New York. I just needed to hear your voice.”
There was a pause.
“What time, David?”
“Nine,” he repeated.
“Good,” Alan said. “Now I know when to think about you.”
They said goodnight.
David went to bed expecting maybe a phone call in the morning.
Instead, the doorbell rang at 5 a.m.
Exhausted from worry and no sleep, David opened the door in his robe… and froze.
Alan Alda was standing on his porch.
Eighty-one years old.
Dark circles under his eyes from a red-eye flight.
Hands trembling from Parkinson’s.
“Alan? How did you get here?”
“Night flight,” Alan said, smiling. “We landed around four. I sat in the car and waited until I thought you’d be awake.”
“But you have Parkinson’s,” David protested. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”
Alan lifted his shaking hand.
“You’re right,” he said. “My hands shake. My legs shake. Some days my head shakes too.”
He stepped inside, slowly but steady.
“But my heart doesn’t shake, David. My heart knows you shouldn’t go to chemo alone. When the heart says go… the feet follow. Even if they wobble.”
David’s eyes filled with tears.
“You flew all night,” he whispered. “You’re 81. You’re sick.”
“And you have cancer,” Alan answered. “You were going to sit in that chair by yourself. Did you really think I could stay in New York knowing that?”
At 9 a.m., David lay in the chemo chair while a nurse placed the IV.
Alan sat down in the hard plastic seat beside him.
“You don’t have to stay,” David said. “It’s four hours. Your back will hurt.”
“Be quiet, David,” Alan replied gently. “I’m an old man. I’m allowed to do what I want. And I want to sit here.”
David laughed for the first time in weeks.
“You’re still as bossy as Hawkeye.”
“And you’re still as proud as Winchester,” Alan said. “Now let me read.”
For four hours, he read David a book.
Told him old MAS*H stories.
Sang off-key until David smiled.
When David drifted off from exhaustion, Alan stayed.
When David woke up, Alan was still there—hands shaking, back aching, but not moving.
“I told you,” Alan said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
That night, they sat at David’s kitchen table with two cups of tea.
“Alan,” David said softly, “can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“In 1980, when I told you I was gay… you didn’t seem surprised. Why?”
Alan smiled.
“Because I already knew,” he said. “I worked with you for three years. I saw how hard you tried to hide yourself. How much it hurt you.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because it wasn’t my secret to touch,” Alan answered. “My job was to be here when you were ready.”
David’s voice broke.
“You were the first person I ever told. And you didn’t turn away.”
“Turn away?” Alan shook his head. “David, I love you. Like a brother. Who you love is your business. Who you are is what matters. And you are a good man.”
Alan couldn’t fly to Oregon every week after that. His health wouldn’t allow it.
But before every chemo session, David’s phone lit up with a video call.
And after every session, it lit up again.
“How was it today?” Alan would ask.
“Rough,” David would say. “But I remember you sitting next to me. It helps.”
“I’m here,” Alan would reply. “On the screen. In your heart. I’m here.”
In March 2018, David Ogden Stiers passed away.
Alan’s Parkinson’s had worsened; his doctors would not let him travel.
So he sent a letter to be read at the funeral.
“David,
I am not there in body today.
But I am there in every person who came to say goodbye… in every piece of music… in every memory of Charles Winchester.
You lived alone for many years.
But you did not leave this world alone.
You had us.
Your MAS*H family.
You had me.
See you later, little brother.
Alan.”
To most of the world, they were just Hawkeye and Winchester.
To each other, they were something much deeper:
A man with shaking hands who refused to let his friend face chemo alone…
and a man who finally knew, after a lifetime of living by himself, that he was loved.
“My Hands Shake, David… But My Heart Doesn’t” — The Day Alan Alda Flew Across the Country for His Friend
In 2017, David Ogden Stiers was living alone in Oregon when he heard the words no one wants to hear:
bladder cancer.
No wife.
No children.
No one to drive him to his first chemo.
The night before treatment, he called one person just to talk.
“Alan, I start chemotherapy tomorrow,” he said quietly. “First session.”
“What time?” Alan asked.
“Nine in the morning. But I’m not asking you for anything. You’re all the way in New York. I just needed to hear your voice.”
There was a pause.
“What time, David?”
“Nine,” he repeated.
“Good,” Alan said. “Now I know when to think about you.”
They said goodnight.
David went to bed expecting maybe a phone call in the morning.
Instead, the doorbell rang at 5 a.m.
Exhausted from worry and no sleep, David opened the door in his robe… and froze.
Alan Alda was standing on his porch.
Eighty-one years old.
Dark circles under his eyes from a red-eye flight.
Hands trembling from Parkinson’s.
“Alan? How did you get here?”
“Night flight,” Alan said, smiling. “We landed around four. I sat in the car and waited until I thought you’d be awake.”
“But you have Parkinson’s,” David protested. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”
Alan lifted his shaking hand.
“You’re right,” he said. “My hands shake. My legs shake. Some days my head shakes too.”
He stepped inside, slowly but steady.
“But my heart doesn’t shake, David. My heart knows you shouldn’t go to chemo alone. When the heart says go… the feet follow. Even if they wobble.”
David’s eyes filled with tears.
“You flew all night,” he whispered. “You’re 81. You’re sick.”
“And you have cancer,” Alan answered. “You were going to sit in that chair by yourself. Did you really think I could stay in New York knowing that?”
At 9 a.m., David lay in the chemo chair while a nurse placed the IV.
Alan sat down in the hard plastic seat beside him.
“You don’t have to stay,” David said. “It’s four hours. Your back will hurt.”
“Be quiet, David,” Alan replied gently. “I’m an old man. I’m allowed to do what I want. And I want to sit here.”
David laughed for the first time in weeks.
“You’re still as bossy as Hawkeye.”
“And you’re still as proud as Winchester,” Alan said. “Now let me read.”
For four hours, he read David a book.
Told him old MAS*H stories.
Sang off-key until David smiled.
When David drifted off from exhaustion, Alan stayed.
When David woke up, Alan was still there—hands shaking, back aching, but not moving.
“I told you,” Alan said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
That night, they sat at David’s kitchen table with two cups of tea.
“Alan,” David said softly, “can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“In 1980, when I told you I was gay… you didn’t seem surprised. Why?”
Alan smiled.
“Because I already knew,” he said. “I worked with you for three years. I saw how hard you tried to hide yourself. How much it hurt you.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because it wasn’t my secret to touch,” Alan answered. “My job was to be here when you were ready.”
David’s voice broke.
“You were the first person I ever told. And you didn’t turn away.”
“Turn away?” Alan shook his head. “David, I love you. Like a brother. Who you love is your business. Who you are is what matters. And you are a good man.”
Alan couldn’t fly to Oregon every week after that. His health wouldn’t allow it.
But before every chemo session, David’s phone lit up with a video call.
And after every session, it lit up again.
“How was it today?” Alan would ask.
“Rough,” David would say. “But I remember you sitting next to me. It helps.”
“I’m here,” Alan would reply. “On the screen. In your heart. I’m here.”
In March 2018, David Ogden Stiers passed away.
Alan’s Parkinson’s had worsened; his doctors would not let him travel.
So he sent a letter to be read at the funeral.
“David,
I am not there in body today.
But I am there in every person who came to say goodbye… in every piece of music… in every memory of Charles Winchester.
You lived alone for many years.
But you did not leave this world alone.
You had us.
Your MAS*H family.
You had me.
See you later, little brother.
Alan.”
To most of the world, they were just Hawkeye and Winchester.
To each other, they were something much deeper:
A man with shaking hands who refused to let his friend face chemo alone…
and a man who finally knew, after a lifetime of living by himself, that he was loved.
RAW. You know she got that fire.
This is one reason why I'm gladly America is exactly where the hell it is and the bed that it made for itself it fully deserves. They never want to pay people what they're truly worth and are always trying to undercut. Fuck them. Fuck the person who thought of this shit
Exactly. I'm surprised we haven't seen more of this type of outsourcing sooner. In-person restaurants, etc.
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