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There was something shocking about Ely's death from pancreatic cancer. His strength of will was so great that he seemed to be a match for cancer and somehow capable of overcoming the inescapable fate of this grave diagnosis. It appeared to be a struggle between an incorrigible élan vital and the forces of demise. If willpower were enough, then Ely would have triumphed and forced the detractor, death itself, to stand down.
He worked until a week before his death, said farewell to his patients, and ended his career. He would not have welcomed death in any way, even if it meant ending his suffering. He would have died as he lived, embracing life, which included his profession. He tolerated considerable suffering and kept his focus on the horizon of living where he directed his hope and his creative energies.
Although we speak of psychoanalysts as an autonomous profession, we are generally an amalgam of identities. In part, this is necessity, as we do not have specific licensing for psychoanalysts in Canada. Further, it implicates the strength of primary professional identities and their continuing relevance, whether this is medicine, psychology, social work, or an academic discipline. The notion that psychoanalytic training totally transforms us remains an ideal and is not by any means inevitable.
In this regard, Ely was a psychiatrist, but this was almost totally eclipsed by his identity as a psychoanalyst, to which he was devoted. To be sure, he saw patients four times per week or did not accept the case. If a patient terminated, there would be a space in his schedule, which would be filled only when a new patient accepted the cadence of his treatment. As such, his approach was never expedient but was always organized in the service of his analytic ideals and way of working. It was inalterable and a constant of who he was.