Three Years Ago...

[HAP]

Dear friends,

My happiness and hope ended three years ago this morning. Jane would not die for another 33 hours after her doctors told me there was nothing left we could do but make her comfortable and let her die, an act that would end our lives together—and an act I had promised her we would take when a fighting chance descended into no chance.

We both died that day. Her body would die just before 8 p.m. on December 10, 2010. My body continues to breathe, to eat, to sleep—but the majority of my spirit has lain in the grave with her already. Were it not for the work I have promised her I would finish, my ashes would rest with her as well. But there is a cancer to fight, people to serve, and a life left to be lived. I gave her my word I would continue to fight, continue to serve, continue to live.

Doing the first two has been easy—my anger at the gross unfairness of her death and the government whose inaction brought her death to pass and the painful love I have always had for my fellow creatures have seen to that. My love for Jane has multiplied the supply of both those fuels and let me channel them against the foulness of both the literal and figurative cancers we face.

It is the living that is hard. I have seen the face of death and my own death holds no fear for me. It is the deaths of others—particularly the deaths of those close to me—that I dread. I could avoid all of that by simply withdrawing from the world. But the life of a hermit is not living—and even if it were I would still know that people were dying in the world—often dying from things that could be prevented; there would still be suffering in the world—suffering brought on by things that could be prevented.

I cannot prevent either death or suffering. I have tried to do both—and more than once. Those failures have been painful. But they would have been more painful had I not tried. I was in a play once in which one of the characters talked about the importance of not giving in to death. Don’t go easily, he said, “fight dirty.”

Jane and I fought dirty at every turn in our struggle with NET cancer. We were not going down without one hell of a fight. I think now, sometimes, that we fought too long and too hard. I think now, sometimes, that after she died I should have walked away and become absorbed in my own needs and desires. But so long as one of our two bodies lives—and as long as that cancer is still out their killing people--we will keep fighting—and keep fighting dirty.

Three years is a long time—and no time at all. Some days the loss is so painful nothing can distract me from it. Some days, the tears are there from the moment I wake up until I cry myself to sleep that night. No one sees me on those days. No one hears me. I let the grief wash over me until it is done. I get up. I take a shower. I move forward, knowing there is another wave out there that will knock me down again—may even wash me all the way back to where I began.

Some days the loss of Jane is a dull ache. It is there but not entirely debilitating. Sometimes, I can almost forget those last months, weeks, days, and hours. Sometimes I can remember our wedding day, a hike to the top of a mountain, a quiet, seemingly unimportant day of the two of us shopping or just sitting on the couch. Sometimes it almost feels like she has just gone out with her sister for the afternoon and I’m merely home alone.

I even have an entire hour, sometimes, where I feel like Lazarus, freshly risen from the grave. Life again seems special and filled with promise. And then I remember and the tears are on me again: I have lived in Paradise and been returned to Hell.

But there is work for me in Hell—and a life to be lived. I have a full water bucket and a sturdy dipper. The souls around me are thirsty—and when the bucket is empty, there is a stream in the distance where I can refill it. I may be damned for it, but I will be damned if I will not try to slake the thirst and ease the suffering of those I can.

Both death and suffering can be eased by the compassion of others--even in Hell.

Peace,

Harry

[Guest babylady]

harry -- you're words are touching. john has been gone for over 18 months and i can't seem to move on. for some reason this last week and a half have been worse. i can't seem to get myself moving today. the tears keep coming.

part of me died when john died. i want so badly to leave this world, but i know it's not my time.

arlene

[HAP]

Keep fighting, Arlene, keep fighting--baby steps every day. The tsunamis keep coming, but you learn to ride them better over time.

Harry

[feralfae]

Dear Harry,

Thank you for that touching account of your journey through these three years, and yes, of the ongoing determination to remember that we still have a reason to live. Today, the accountant will come out and we will go over the gifts that Doug and I had decided on before he left, and checks will be written from the foundation.

It is a small thing to do for us, for the us" who wanted to make a difference in the world through how we made gifts, and how we worked and communicated with others. I feel blessed to share your days and efforts, your struggles and your grief. You, too, have taken on the mantle for yourself that was once shared by two beings both here on this plane. Now you are carrying on alone, and I think you are doing a courageous and great job of it. Congratulations on continuing even through the days of tears and the times of great loneliness. You stand as an example of goodness for us all. Thank you.

*<twinkles>*

fae

[feralfae]

Dear Arlene,

I was wondering how you were making it through these holidays, the weather, and being alone. You are doing a great job, and as Harry said, keep fighting, keep going. We will make it through these days, often healing in ways that we do not recognize or understand, but we are still here and we go on.

I will be watching for your posts these next few weeks. Even little tiny baby steps of healing are a reason for celebration. Blessings to you, dear one.

*<twinkles>*

fae

[enna]

Dear Harry,

A beautiful expression of your love for Jane. It is what we are now called to do and that is carry on doing what we can to make a difference and wondering how we live from day to day. I am one who is thirsty as I crawl through this life now without my Jim. Oh yes, there are good and not so good days and we will all get through them as only we each know how. It is good that we do not have to do this alone. I thank those who are here listening.

Arlene dear, you are moving through your grief journey with courage. The holidays are hard for all of us. It is the way it is without our soulmates.

I am grateful for all those sitting around this fire. There is a warmth here that keeps us all going.

Fae, my friend, we need some of your fairy dust sprinkled around during these days.

Anne

[feralfae]

Here you are, dear Anne,

*<twinkles>*

*<twinkles>*

*<twinkles>*

*<twinkles>*

*<twinkles>*

*<twinkles>*

[Guest babylady]

thank you all for your encouraging words. john and i didn't celebrate holidays after we left new york -- actually so many times we were on the "outs" with his family. my family had already left new york. i remember one year i worked. drove my car into the city and worked for a few hours and then went to the gym. when my mom who was in SC told my sister's mother in law she was outraged -- like i committed a crime. another time i had been working a lot of overtime and spent christmas day catching up on sleep. i've said it before and i'll say it again "i've always danced to the beat of a different drummer". i didn't wear a wedding ring. i did the first few years, but i liked wearing a lot of jewelry and it interfered. in retaliation john moved his to his right hand. lol. lately i notice how many women wear wedding sets. never had an engagement ring -- never wanted one. my therapist said "you're not like most people -- don't even try to be".

this weather is awful. it's 53. i know to many of you that does not seem cold, but anything under 70 is too cold for me. the cold makes my back and legs hurt more too. i keep the house at 77 but sometimes turn it up to 78 or 79. i didn't move here to be cold. it's 82 in west palm beach. my granddaughter would rather have the colder weather as a change. seems the winters here are getting colder. when i first moved here 24 years ago we got a few cold days, but nothing like this.

i forced myself to go to the cracker barrel today because they have baked chicken on mondays. when i got there it was all gone. drove 8 miles each way to be disappointed. i guess it was good that i put on makeup and got out of the house. hadn't been out since friday.

the cold weather is not helping my mood. i have to go food shopping tomorrow and have an appointment with the pain doc on wednesday. i do not like going there -- it's 22 miles round trip and it's a big deal just to get a new prescription for my pain meds. it's always crowded and i don't like being around too many people. seems there's always someone near me coughing or someone who just finished a cigarette. that smell makes me sick. if i walk past someone who's smoking i actually get dizzy. then i probably won't leave the house again till saturday. howie will be here for my massage friday.

i guess i'm moving on. when i think back of everything that had to be done when john was sick and then after he passed i don't know how i did it. thank goodness for howie, but there were many things that had to do by myself.

guess i went off on a rant again.

arlene

[mfh]

Dear Harry,

You have, over and over again, lived out the promise you made to Jane. I am thinking of you on this anniversary...your life is a tribute to her. I do understand your pain, your loss, your tears and more. Know that we all remain here with you as you walk into tomorrow.

Peace to your heart,

Mary

[KATPILOT]

Hap,

Thinking about this day I feel what you are going through. My third is coming up soon and I guess it just doesn't get much easier. I have to shake my head quite hard to get my minds eye off of watching her leave.

How hard it is to look into the eyes of your love both knowing it's over. Watching her trying to breathe those last two days in Hospice is a vision I wish would stop haunting me. It won't. It just is what it is. I am so sorry for what this day is to you. It used to be just the tenth of December.

Stephen

[kayc]

Harry,

I'm sorry your post came after I'd checked this site, I wish I could have responded to you sooner. Yet what can I say? We know how hard the anniversary of death day is, never easy to get through. I do want to tell you, though, that you have fought the good fight, and continue to do so, not only for Jane, but for so many other fellow sufferers. Your efforts are making a difference, even when you can't measure them. I personally am so proud of you and your accomplishments, I feel we're priviledged to know you!