HAP

Dear Mary, You do know how hard watercolor is, don't you? And you can do this after a few months' work? Lady, you have talent. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, Just after noon here and already three good things have come to me. The first I detail in a post called "Sunrise." The second is that I got an email from my niece that she wants to get out of Boston for a few days as she prepares for her medical boards at the end of March and wants to come hee to study for a few days. And the third is that, barring a meltdown of some kind, the walkingwithjane.org website will cross 7000 views sometime today. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, A friend once told me this story about her son. She was lying in bed asleep one morning when her son bounced onto her bed, waking her up. "Mommy, mommy," he chirped, "The sun is shining...the birds are singing...I'm hungry." For a child, every day is about new experience and new knowledge. Every day is about the excitement of possibility. Every day is about being hungry--not just for food but for the new that each day brings with it. Somehow, neither Jane nor I ever lost that child-like desire for the new. We counted any day wasted where we had not learned something new, experienced some new perspective. It was why teaching suited us both so well. Even if you had taught something a dozen times, teaching it to someone else made it different--it forced us to see everything we knew from a different angle. And it gave us both an excuse to read, to study, and to learn something new every day. Jane played tennis every day in the summer. For two hours she and her sister would hit together in a local park. One day two women challenged them to play doubles against them. Jane and her sister lost the first three games of the first set. Then Jane took her sister aside. "I know now what they are doing--what they like and what they don't like. They don't win another game." Jane had spent those three games studying and learning. Once she knew, they had no chance. She and her sister ran off the next six games, then smoked them in the second set. Jane hated losing. I hate losing. It is what has made her death so hard for me to deal with. We learned all we could. We applied what we knew and what her doctors knew--and we still lost. Never mind the fact we didn't know enough--any of us--to win the battle. Losing gracefully simply never has been part of our make-up. I realized this morning that part of what ails me these last weeks is that, while I have stuck to learning something new every day, I have found less of a child's joy in it. Part of it is the deadly seriousness of what I have put myself to learning. I learn less for its own sake and more for the deadly purpose of taking on this disease. Some will argue that is a good thing--that I have grown up at last. But this work requires more than the recitation of factoids. It requires the mind of the child who sees the connections between disparate branches of knowledge--who delights in the connections not because they will provide new weapons--but simply because they are there to be discovered. In forcing myself to focus on how everything relates to this cancer I have stopped seeing the larger picture. In ignoring my nature I have decreased my value and made myself more unhappy. The sun is shining...the birds are singing--and I am, again, very hungry. Peace, Harry

Several months ago we had a thread that lasted for two or three months where we each tried to give one thing that had happened that day that was positive. I thought of that post as I was reading another thread earlier today where someone brought up that this was something they had done regularly in the past--and still tried to do today. It seems to me that it is very easy to get caught up in the awesome awfulness of grief. I do it all the time. But seeing the positives and sharing them has a two-fold positive effect. First, we all need to remember that there are good things going on in the world every day that our grief makes it hard for us to see. The second is that in sharing those positives with others we increase the positive energy around us. Grieving is a hard thing--we all know this. But things like Melina's owl can bring us all a moment of lightness--a moment of positive energy we can all build on. So here is my positive moment for today, small as it is: I went up to Boston today to help a friend of mine set up a Facebook page for a scholastic journalism group that we are both on the board for. I walked her through the process and answered a couple of questions on accessing the demographics for her husband's page for another non-profit he works with. I decided that instead of jumping on the Mass. Pike I would take the scenic route home and see what has changed since I last drove those roads regularly. About ten minutes down the road my cell phone went off. It was my friend. I had left my reading glasses behind when I left. Had I taken my usual route I would have been well on my way home--and stuck on a toll road to boot. As it was I was able to get back to their home pretty quickly--and avoided whatever unpleasantness was waiting for me on the route I had planned to take. This is my small effort to get us all back in a habit that seemed good for us at the time. What happened to you that lifted your spirits even for a fraction of a second today? Peace, Harry Shared grief is diminished; shared joy is multiplied. Spyder Robinson in The Callahan stories.

Dear Melina, I think grief makes introverts of us all. I enjoyed being out with people when Jane was with me. Now socializing has become a chore--a necessary evil for what I need and want to do. Pax et lux, Harry

For Jane, Valentine’s Day, 2012 Fourteen months and four days— You breathed in my arms One last breath. I kissed you, Closed your eyes, Let you descend and ascend. Kissed you again-- Your forehead cold Against my lips. Fourteen months and four days— I kissed your lips The day we buried you— Carried your coffin Into the church And out again— From the hearse To the grave— I kissed your coffin— Fourteen months, four days— Fourteen minutes, four seconds— Fourteen years, four months— The time spins out like straw Becoming lead— The gold is gone— No alchemy reclaims it— Fourteen months and four days— Shut up in darkness— Shut up in tears— Shut up in silence. Fourteen months and four days— We are the dead— We are the living— We are the stuff of stars— We are the stuff of God— So we will dance again— And sing again— And love again… For when the darkness rises The light will descend to meet it. All my love, always and all ways, Harry

Dear Lainey, What you are doing is far harder than what I am doing. I can sometimes reduce cancer to an abstraction because I don't have to deal with the day-to-day suffering. We need people to carry the burden of caregiver. Dear Melina, Look at what you do. You help so many others carry their burdens--help them find an hour they can put them down in. You fight a different battle--but it is in the war against human suffering none-the-less. Dear Pam, My friend John Milton once wrote--"They do also serve who only stand and wait." What you wrote has raised my spirits. Thank you for being there. You do more than you know. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, I posted this on walkingwithjane.org earlier tonight. But I think I need to share it with you as well. Especially with tomorrow being tomorrow. I have had enough today. I don't want to write about cancer. I don't want to write about charities and how they spend their money. I don't want to write about the latest research or the latest conference on NET/CS. I most certainly should--but do not want to--write about the cancer fraud case at Duke that aired on 60 Minutes last night. I've had enough of the business of cancer. I've had enough of writing every day. I've had enough of reading every day. I've had enough of analyzing and thinking every day. I want my wife back and I want my life back. But it isn't going to happen. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. It will be fourteen months and four days since my wife died--since she took her last breath in my arms. It will be fifteen months and one day since the last night we slept together in this house. Today I went to my voice therapy session. Then I went down the road and bought some craft supplies so I could build a decoration for her grave. I finished it just a few minutes ago. She'd like it, I think. Tonight, after my ACS meeting, I will write her a Valentine's Day card. I will finish her poem. I will place them in a clear plastic bag and seal it. In the morning I will have breakfast, take the pills that are supposed to help lower my cholesterol and keep my heart healthy. I will pack the card, the poem and the decoration into my car. I will drive to the cemetery. I will place them on her grave. I will stand there in the cold and talk to the stone. It is a ritual that keeps me sane on these emotional days. It gives me an anchor for my grief. I can cry there and no one will notice or care or ask for an explanation. Then I will come home. I will do the research, the thinking and analyzing, the writing. I will go out and sell t-shirts and buttons. I will tell people I am doing OK--that I have good days and bad days--that today...is whatever it is. Part of me doesn't want to do any of this anymore. Part of me wants to curl up in a ball and hide from the world. But I won't do that. Maybe I am foolish or egotistical for thinking this, but somewhere out there is a young couple--and one of them has this awful disease and does not know it yet. Maybe, just maybe, what I write and what I do will make a difference in their lives. Maybe they will not go through in their 50s what Jane and I went through in ours. Maybe one of them won't have to make the weekly trek to the cemetery--or the really tough ones on those days that every couple has that are special. And maybe one of them won't have to sleep in an empty bed that has a spot in it that never quite gets warm the way it once did. Peace, Harry

I may be a bit late to the party--but Happy Birthday Marty! You are a gem. Peace, Harry

Dear Kim, I don't know that this will help, but it is a story that has gotten me over some really bad rough spots: After the assassination of John Kennedy, Art Buchwald and Mary McGrory and another--older columnist at the Washington Post were talking, sharing their grief. Buchwald says he turned to the older columnist--I think it was Walter Lippman--and asked, "Will we ever laugh again?" To which Lippman replied: "Oh, we'll laugh again...we'll just never be young again." Death changes us--mature's us, if you will. I savor life in a very different way than I once did. Every moment with those I am close to matters--not more--not less--but differently--more deeply somehow than it did before. And I have begun to laugh again--not as fully and deeply as I did before I lost Jane--not yet--but I know how important laughter is having lost it for a time. At first I was embarrassed about laughing--even smiling took time to come back without guilt. But Jane loved to hear me laugh--and I know that the deep laugh is budding back within me and will eventually return. And I think everything will return eventually. It will not be the same. Death gives things a different feeling--a different smell--a different look, sound, and taste. It is not the same as one who has physically been brought to the edge of death and come back--but it is similar in a way I cannot quite describe. Life is precious--and its experiences are what makes it so. I'm not sure how much of the above makes sense or will help you. I understand what I am trying to say, but not having much success explaining it in words. Peace, Harry

Dear Alone, Saturday will be 14 months out from wife's death--and I remember too clearly the pain you are feeling right now. I am so sorry for your loss and wish there were some way you did not have to experience it. The others have given you really good advice. I will only add that you need to take care of yourself physically as well as emotionally. That means eating regularly and healthily. It means getting some bit of physical exercise every day. And it means keeping yourself hydrated--drink lots of liquids. Sleep is also important--though particularly hard to get in the time you are in just now. When we take care of the body the mind tends to follow. If I ignore any one of those things for more than a day or two my mind goes south for a few days. Grief is nasty enough without compounding it with physical problems that can make the grief worse. This is a good place that will help you heal. The people are kind and know where you have been--or are experiencing it now. When you cry, we will hear you. When you need comforting we will comfort you. Stay safe and stay well. Peace, Harry

If this is what you do as a beginner--if this is what you see and create--what will you do when you think you have become good at it? Mary, these are wonderful. Peace, Harry

Thanks Mary. Glad you found value in them. They certainly helped me find a new perspective. They went well when i read them tonight at the Kick-off Dinner for the local Relay for Life. Peace, Harry

Very nice Marty. Mary, you have said this so well i weep with you. We will grow through this concrete sidewalk. Peace, Harry

Me too.

The antidote to this piece is Here is Life--which i wrote this morning and have posted as a separate topic. Thanks Lance for letting me know this worked for you. I hope it's companion does the same--but in a better way. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, I woke up this morning to the realization that one cannot look at death without looking at life--any more than one can look at life without looking at death. Hope this lifts you up this morning. Peace, Harry Here is Life Here is life— Not mere breathing Eating, sleeping— Not a job— But a work— A child’s vision That sees a blade In leaves of grass-- That chases snowflakes— Weeping as they melt— That sees the color Of stars against The dark blue sky Of night. Here is life— A thing that hungers, That thirsts, That risks all, Every day For one more breath— That savors every smell, Delights in every taste, Treasures every touch, Devours every sound, Consumes every sight-- That teaches stars What it is to burn. Here is life— The ebb and flow Of joy and laughter, Of sorrow and tears, Of youth and age at once-- The first steps-- The first bike-- The first love-- The learning And the learning And the learning— That wakes in your arms Like starlight Turning into sunlight. Here is life— Live. Copyright 2012 by Harry Proudfoot

Dear Melina, I have not laughed like this in a long time. Great punch line. After what I spent my night writing this was a perfect tonic--and I have to go grocery shopping tomorrow... Wonder what widows and widowers I'll encounter. And next time you doubt that you are getting better--just go back and read that last bit. Neither of us could have written that line a year ago. You are beautiful. Peace, Harry

Thank you Mary. We may heal eventually, but those final images will shape so much of who we are and what we do. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, I will read all of what follows as part of the Kick-off Dinner Ceremony for the Greater Fall River Relay for Life Friday night. This is why I walk in circles in June from sunrise to sunrise and beyond. It is why I hiked the 26.2 miles of the Marathon Walk. This is for all of you who have walked someone to the end of cancer's road. Here is Death Here is death-- Not sharp and sudden— No bullets, knives, No stroke or heart attack-- Not quick and clean— The messy death Of soiled sheets And pumps and wires And frustration— The loss of every dignity— The loss of every privacy— The loss of every human thing. Here is death Built slowly day-by day— The swollen feet, the lump, The shortness of the breath— The appetite that fades-- The world that shrinks From town to home, To a floor, A pair of rooms, A bed and chair. The pain that grows In mind and body both Here is death-- Beggaring the body, Beggaring the mind, Beggaring the soul, Consuming flesh, Consuming sanity, Consuming humanity, Sucking the marrow Of all that is joy. Here is death-- I read to you, I kiss your forehead, Nose and lips— The doctor comes And listens, shakes his head-- I close your eyes-- I carry your coffin And weep the silence That remains. copyright 2012 by Harry Proudfoot

Thanks. I needed that. Harry

Dear Melina, I have been off-line for a few weeks and just read through the entire posting here at one sitting. I largely agree that the reason for what she said to you was entirely coming from her own pain. I have been so guilty of this at times in the last year. I think lots of us engage in acting-out and other painful behaviors because our souls are in such turmoil that everything hurts and has to have an outlet. We have to forgive ourselves when we do so, and forgive those in similar anguish when they do them to us. I also agree with those who say you have to take care of yourself before you are in a position to take care of others. I worry about the damage I could have done--could still do--given the pain that wells up inside me and emerges without warning. I did nearly fatal damage to one very old friendship without intending to last fall. And there was nothing like the emotional wound on the other side I had to further complicate things. Your inner voice is something to listen to here. It knows you well. When--or if--you are ready to go there you will know. In the meantime, we all say things to try to ease the griefs of another. Rarely do those offers get picked up, so I would be surprised if you get that call from her looking for help. Just making the offer eased her mind in that moment. You said what she needed to hear at that moment. I think none of us can look at this pain in another and not offer some immediate solace in that moment of need. But it is often all we can do--and it has to be enough. You were among the first people that I met here and became comfortable with. Our losses, being of similar age and kind, opened me up in ways I did not expect. Thank you for that. And your troubles here have also caused me to look at what is going on with me in different ways than I otherwise might have. Thank you. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, You're right--it is the doing that matters. Unfortunately, they are in Texas--damned Army--so beyond writing and sending positive energies as much as I can arrange, there is not much I can do of use. But another friend called last night with trouble in her voice while I was out. Her I can do more for. But I begin to think people would be wise to keep their spiritual distance from me. There is an awfully hard rain falling on those I care about lately. It would bother me less if they were older--I am of an age where my father tells me I am going to see more and more of my old friends in trouble--but so many of these are in their 20s and 30s. Ah well, Jane and I always did attract people who were in trouble. It was--and is--our dharma--our work. Thanks to you all for your thoughts and your prayers. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, After Jane died, someone gave me a copy of a book called Why bad things happen to good people. I had heard of the book but had never read it, so I opened it up and started reading. The author was a minister who cited scripture trying to explain the awful things that happen to people as part of some divine plan. Maybe those events are part of some plan for the greater good somewhere, but it brings little solace to those to whom the incredibly bad happens. I was reading the book on a plane to visit my family out west. Had I been reading it at home I would have thrown it across the room and screamed my lungs out. Right after Jane died and I had talked to her father and sister, I called my father. We had lost my mother nine months before to Alzheimer's. He said to me, "And now you know there really is nothing anyone can say to you that is going to make this any better." There were two books I found useful in those days. One was a book a friend, Beverly Foote, had written about Lent called A Journey of the Heart: Meditations. It had nothing to do with dealing with death in a traditional sense, but it gave me an anchor in that first month and a quarter because I felt I really was alone in the wilderness. The second I happened upon in a book store during one of those desperate days when the silence drove me out of the house and convinced me to do things I would not normally do--like look at the self-help rack in a book store. Martha Whitmore Hickman lost her daughter in an accident. Her book, Healing After Loss, did not try to explain why bad things happen to people. She had been where I was and knew that was not what people in grief need. This week one of my favorite students gave birth to her first child. I read the first bit of the birth announcement with great joy. The baby weighed in at a healthy eight pounds four ounces. But the next part set off alarm bells in my head: "We're asking everyone to keep her in your prayers." Schizenephaly is a brain disorder/birth defect that creates clefts in the brain. Often the child does not survive birth. Depending on the extent of the damage there are developmental issues, seizures and paralysis. We do not know what causes it. We do not have a cure. Her daughter was born with it. I don't know what to say to my student. Like my father with me, I have no words that can truly offer solace for what she is going through. I hate the ritual words we all say at times like these because I know just how meaningless they really are--how much they can sting and burn in the mind and in the soul. She and her daughter and her husband need our love and thoughts and prayers and energy tonight--and every night. It is all we can truly offer anyone who faces this kind of darkness. Peace, Harry

Nice series of pieces. Thanks Mary. Harry