Remembering The Diagnosis

[HAP]

Dear friends,

"He says he thinks it's cancer," she said. "He said they can't be sure until after the biopsy..."

She was upbeat. She was positive. But the word cancer was still there.

That was two years ago. It was, at that moment, the worst thing that had ever happened to us. Worse was coming but we both put the best spin on it we could. We tried to be strong for each other.

I woke up to that memory this morning. It haunted me through breakfast, through the dishes, through the morning tour of the garden. I don't want to remember but I can't stop. I want to go home but I can't. The place that was home--the place I am writing this from--ceased to be home when she wasn't here anymore. Now it is a house on a hill, no more a home than anywhere else I lived before we married. It is the place I sleep, the place I eat, the place I work.

Our books are here. Our furniture is here. Our dishes are here. But they are mere objects and reminders of who we were together.

There is a card Jane gave me on one of our early anniversaries on the bookcase to my right. "Who, being loved, is poor?" It has been on my bookcase, no matter where we were, since the day she gave it to me. It was one of the first things I unpacked when we moved into this house nearly 18 years ago.

By that measure, I am wealthy beyond the wildest dreams of avarice. But today it is as though all that wealth is tied up in things that make it untouchable. I am at once the wealthiest man in the world and the poorest.

Death is a felon--and Cancer is his most sadistic partner. There are no nice cancer deaths. Each is wrapped in a unique and searing bubble of mental, physical, and emotional pain. And the pain is not singular. It ensnares not only the patient who physically has it but the people who love them as well.

Nor is cancer the only such disease. My father lost my mother to Alzheimer's--and good friend is losing her husband to the same foul fiend. It tears their souls the way Jane's cancer tears mine.

In the obituaries they use the term "survived by." The reporters who write those words have no idea how ironic that phrase is. Nor do those who have not experienced this kind of deep personal loss. The word is totally appropriate--not as a euphemism but as a real description of the status of those left behind. We have survived. But survival is not exactly the same as living. We are ships with neither rudders nor anchors in waters infested with reefs, rocks and shallows that can hole a fragile hull in an instant.

People ask why I do what I do. They ask why I don't just move on. They ask why, 19 months and nine days after my wife's death, I still wear my wedding ring.

I have survived a great shipwreck--the greatest shipwreck imaginable. I don't wear an earring. I have something better.

Peace,

Harry

[Wifflesnook]

Harry, you made me weep. What can I say except I know.

Jan

[mfh]

Once again, Harry, you speak from your heart and your words touch my soul. I could take out Cancer and put in Alzheimer's and what you said would be what I have felt. The house I live in does feel like a house. Without Bill in it...and because we moved into it less than a year before his death...hoping the location would be good for him. I am so sorry for your loss and pain. I am inspired by your devotion to your marriage, your cause and your grief. I wear both of our wedding rings (they match) on my left hand and there they will stay until I am in the ground. And yes, we are all survivors hoping someday to thrive but right now mired in tsunamis, infested waters, storms at sea and more. I could not have imagined the pain I have felt since Bill died....never in all my days did I know such grief existed. I do now. Thanks for saying so much of what you feel and so much of what I feel and doing it so well. Onward we go....one tide lifting all ships.

Peace,

Mary

[Lina]

*hugs*

[Guest babylady]

my husband passed on 5/27/12 from a glioblastoma. he was fine until 2/28/12 when he came home from work and had a seizure. fortunately he did not have pain during the 3 months he lived except for some of the tests that were performed.

i keep having memories of him being in hospice -- then to assisted living for a month -- then back to hospice. he knew what he wanted to say but couldn't express himself. the tumor was in the area that controls memory and communication. he was able to tell me he loved me every day.

i also remember the diagnosis. we got it on 4/10/12. neurosurgeon said he would live a few weeks. he lived almost 8 weeks.

i'm crying now and i cry every day and wonder if i'll ever stop crying.

hugs to you.

[Cosel]

babylady, Your loss is still so very recent that your crying is normal and expected. My husband has been gone 20 months now and I still cry. It may not be everyday, but the tears still flow at times. I think I am doing really well then a memory will hit me and I'm in tears. The tears will slow down but it takes time. When you don't cry everyday don't feel as if you are forgetting him but you are starting to heal a little.

Harry, Your words touched my heart. I lost my husband to cancer and my mother to Alzheimer's.

Cosel

[Queeniemary]

Harry, I know what you mean by waking up, and remembering all over again. I did that very thing this morning. I was in the Hospital in Fayetteville, AR, 1 1/2 hours from home, when Mike died of a massive coronary. I had a TKR on right knee two days before he died. He had no warning symptoms, and the last time I saw him was the night of my surgery, on Monday, when he kissed me goodby, and walked out the hospital room door, laughing at something we were joking about (the food in the hospital I think) We talked on the phone on Tuesday a couple of times. I learned of his death on the phone, on Wednesday, after trying to reach him all day with no success, not knowing he was gone, having died just after midnight. There are many things that happened during the first few weeks that I just cannot remember. I was trying to remember this morning about leaving the hospital with my daughter and her husband, and coming back to Harrison, directly to the funeral home to make the arrangements on Thursday. We were met there by some very close friends, I do remember that, but much of that time is foggy.

Mike and I lived in this house our entire married life, which was just short of 20 years. I still see him here, always will. Surviving a shipwreck, that is the perfect way to describe it. Nothing will ever be the same again.

I still wear my rings also, after 30 months.

Mary (Queeniemary) in Arkansas

[mfh]

my husband passed on 5/27/12 from a glioblastoma. he was fine until 2/28/12 when he came home from work and had a seizure. fortunately he did not have pain during the 3 months he lived except for some of the tests that were performed.

i keep having memories of him being in hospice -- then to assisted living for a month -- then back to hospice. he knew what he wanted to say but couldn't express himself. the tumor was in the area that controls memory and communication. he was able to tell me he loved me every day.

i also remember the diagnosis. we got it on 4/10/12. neurosurgeon said he would live a few weeks. he lived almost 8 weeks.

i'm crying now and i cry every day and wonder if i'll ever stop crying.

hugs to you.

This is an extremely raw and open wound. I had to learn and am still learning to be patient with this grief journey. The crying will subside but those tears are healing. I still have tears almost every day. I doubt a day passes when something does not trip off the faucet. But you are still in shock. I am so so sorry you have to walk this path. It will teach you but I did not want to hear that 2 months after Bill died. I just wanted him back. I still do but it does get better (if that is a good word). Maybe we adjust, get used to the loss and the pain...hard to describe. Be patient and be IN the process...as if you had a choice right now. I wish you a moment of a happy memory. Peace, Mary

[mfh]

Mary, when I read your story I just feel so sad for you. You were already dealing with your TKR which in and of itself is a huge thing...with lots of recovery work. Then to bear the shock of Mike's death during that time (or any time). I am just so sad for you. I do know the feeling of seeing him everywhere in the house. We only lived in this one for 10 months before Bill died and though I am glad we moved I sort of wish we hadn't as the last house was so filled with memories. This one is filled with mostly sad memories of his final months of pain and agony. I wear both of our wedding rings on my left hand (28 months later) where they will stay until I join him. You are right, Mary, nothing will every be the same including me. It is now a life Before Bill's death and After Bill's death. 36 years does not lead to one "just moving on"...can't happen. He is part of who I am. Mike is part of who you are...forever...and with you every day. Peace, Mary

[kayc]

I like the card she gave you.