Death Begins Our Pain

[HAP]

Dear friends,

There are no simple, clean, painless deaths from cancer. Each has its pattern of slow annihilation. And each leaves the loved ones who go on with emotional scarring that changes everything.

Tonight I went to a wake for a former student's father-in-law. The newly widowed woman asked me a question I never know quite how to answer: "Does it get better?" Three days short of the 20 month anniversary of Jane's death I was in an even worse position than usual to answer that question. The familiar build-up to the tsunami that lands on me once a month has already begun.

I gave her the best answer I could: "It gets different--and in that sense it does get better--but at 20 months in, the ache is still there. It is a long process." I offered the best solace I know how and told her daughter-in-law to have her call me if she needs to talk. But I find it hard to lie about grief, even a little.

My next-door neighbor lost her husband more than a dozen years ago. After Jane died she took the time to talk to me. She did not sugarcoat any of it.

"People tell me I have gotten over it," she said. "I nod my head. I smile. I tell them what they want to hear. But the truth is, it still hurts as badly as it ever did. I still cry. But no one sees it. The hurt is different. But it is still there, still awful."

I'd like to tell you she is the exception. The truth is otherwise in most cases. Oh, there are some who seem to get over it and move on. But for the majority it seems the appearance of normalcy is an act. Among ourselves we can share the reality the world does not want to hear: The pain changes form; the pain changes in intensity now and again; you learn, slowly, to live with it and bury it in public so you can do what needs doing--but it is a constant companion that does not seem to truly diminish.

When someone dies a particularly painful death we try to console their mates with phrases like, "She is out of pain now" and "He is in a better place." And that is so. What others not understand is that for the spouse left behind the pain is really only beginning--even though they have been through the awesome pain of watching their other half fight through the illness that finally claimed them.

Though I am not Christian in the dogmatic sense, the Bible says it well in describing a married couple as one flesh. The death of one half rends the other crippled and in great and seemingly unending pain. It is as though someone had sliced you in half and you had survived the operation. And the tighter the bond between the couple, the greater the pain of that separation is.

I have lost my grandparents--all of them when I was old enough to understand their deaths. I have lost my mother and my mother-in-law--who was like a second mother to me. I have lost friends. None of those losses measures even a tiny fraction of the loss of my wife.

I am writing this tonight on our back porch. There is a gentle breeze dissolving the heat of the day. The hummingbirds have flitted in and out, sucking nectar from the flowers that line the deck and sugar-water from the feeder. They have serenaded me and hovered so close that I could have reached out and touched them. It is amazingly beautiful and peaceful--and sadder than I can say.

It is the kind of thing that Jane and I looked forward to every summer--the kind of thing we were looking forward to even more when we were retired--the idea of time and space together unencumbered by any kind of future responsibility. I want to reach out and hold her hand, pull her close to me and feel her head resting against mine and mine against hers.

Her cancer took that from us. It took it from the widow I met tonight and the widower I met two weeks ago.

It takes it from someone every day.

Peace,

Harry

[mfh]

And each leaves the loved ones who go on with emotional scarring that changes everything.

The familiar build-up to the tsunami that lands on me once a month has already begun.

"It gets different--and in that sense it does get better--but at 20 months in, the ache is still there. It is a long process." But I find it hard to lie about grief, even a little.

"People tell me I have gotten over it," she said. "I nod my head. I smile. I tell them what they want to hear. But the truth is, it still hurts as badly as it ever did. I still cry. But no one sees it. The hurt is different. But it is still there, still awful."

But for the majority it seems the appearance of normalcy is an act. Among ourselves we can share the reality the world does not want to hear: The pain changes form; the pain changes in intensity now and again; you learn, slowly, to live with it and bury it in public so you can do what needs doing--but it is a constant companion that does not seem to truly diminish.

What others not understand is that for the spouse left behind the pain is really only beginning--even though they have been through the awesome pain of watching their other half fight through the illness that finally claimed them.

Though I am not Christian in the dogmatic sense, the Bible says it well in describing a married couple as one flesh. The death of one half rends the other crippled and in great and seemingly unending pain. It is as though someone had sliced you in half and you had survived the operation. And the tighter the bond between the couple, the greater the pain of that separation is.

None of those losses measures even a tiny fraction of the loss of my wife.

It is amazingly beautiful and peaceful--and sadder than I can say.

It is the kind of thing that Jane and I looked forward to every summer--the kind of thing we were looking forward to even more when we were retired--the idea of time and space together unencumbered by any kind of future responsibility. I want to reach out and hold her hand, pull her close to me and feel her head resting against mine and mine against hers.

Her cancer took that from us. It took it from the widow I met tonight and the widower I met two weeks ago. It takes it from someone every day.

Peace,

Harry

Harry, your post came into my email. First, I am so sorry you are hurting so....Like you, I too am hurting and the contents of your post are incredibly accurate in my experience...you and I and others will hurt forever. No way around it. Yes intensity, if that is a good word, changes but I miss Bill as much today as 28 months ago. The hole is deep. I act in public as if that is not true. My close friends know...it is true and will be true forever. No use sugar coating it. We go on. We find meaning somehow but the hole is always there. I wrote about that hole this morning and will post it for you. Peace to your heart. Mary

Here it is: The Hole.pdf

[ANC1117]

Harry,

Your post speaks volumes. Many of my friends have lost parents, siblings, and even children; they do speak thier truth about moving on with life from their own pain. Celene and I longed for every moment to spend together. We made it a point to put our love for each other and our daughter above all else. I truly believe this is why I still find myself reaching out for her hand, longing for that kiss and hug goodbye in the morning, the kiss goodnight, the sharing of both good and bad moments, and so much more. It have gotten to a point where I can be in solcial suroundings without breaking down in tears and this may make it seem that Celene's passing has become easier for me to others. It is the alone moments when I do things that she and I enjoyed doing that my life without her is most painful. In three days it will be 10 months since Celene's death and I continue on. Thanks and peace.

Anthony

[ANC1117]

Mary,

Your poam is so fitting and so beautiful. Thank you for sharing it with us. The "Hole" is what it feels like every day.

Anthony

[mik]

Your post hit right to the heart Harry. Yes somone is taken away everyday, for me it was the first and only man so far that I was truly in love with. And he loved me. I waited a lifetime to hear those words. He was taken by bone cancer. A painful, devasting disease. I hear about cancer surviors. I feel jealous that they have survived while my own love lost his life to this horrid disease. It sounds selfish I know, but I wonder why could it not be him that was one of the survivors? I was angry with God for so long until I understood that I will never understand why. Does not make a lot of sense to anyone who has not experienced this first hand. I saw a strong, intelligent man, lose his strength, his mind, his spirit. He was a shell of the person he once was. It is devasting byond any words can fathom. My heart still breaks everyday at his loss. I have tried to go on. Some days it is bearable, other days it is good with the glimmer of hope that happiness may still be out there...but it changes you..I read on somones profile here...you think you have changed your life..but life has changed you. I could not have said those words better myself. It is so true. I feel as though a large part of my heart is gone. It will never be replaced no matter how much time goes by. Does it get better? No. Your right, it becomes "different"..I supposed one can say better, with the intensity of the emotion at a leavel that is manageable. But better? No never. I long to see my Dragon in the afterlife. Sometime so much that I look to my own death as freedom...freedom from the physical bonds that keep me here in this world until I can one day be reunited with him. So that I make this clear, I do not wish to end my life out of depression or desperation. I do not want to end it. I wish it would reach it final pinnacle so that I can once again be by his side. It is only then that my heart will feel whole again.

Until then I will go on. Not as the same person but as one who has loved and lost, forever changed.

Kimberly