Forty-Four Months

[HAP]

Dear friends,

Forty-four months. Forty-eight months. Twenty-five years. The anniversaries swirl around me tonight like building winds. I can talk about wanting to move forward. I can even take small steps in that direction—a thing I could not have imagined even two months ago. But the next 23 days I walk through the debris of a shattered life while I try to rebuild my loving soul.

Forty-four months ago, Jane closed her eyes one last time. Forty-four months ago, she breathed for the last time. Forty-four months ago I tried to catch the final breath from her lips. Forty-four months ago, a part of me died—and the part that remained was so damaged that had I not made promises, I would have let the rest of me follow my wife’s body into the grave.

Forty-eight months ago tonight, we had returned from our final vacation together. Forty-eight months ago tomorrow, we went in for Jane’s biopsy. Forty-eight months ago on Friday, we heard the word carcinoid for the first time. Forty-eight months ago on Friday, this long battle—this horrid Odyssey—truly began. The rest was only prelude.

I hate losing. I have always hated losing. Jane hated losing. She always hated losing. Even in death, she refused to lose. Even after her death, I refuse to say we lost. She beat her cancer in the only way anyone ever has beaten this cancer when it is detected anything but so early it could not be detected other than by accident: she died and took it with her.

That is a brutal thing to say, but I can only deal in truth tonight—and the truth is often brutal.

It is easy to get caught up in those horrific final months. Watching someone you love gradually waste away—watching their world shrink to a yard to a house to a room to a bed to a coffin—rips your soul into confetti-sized pieces soaked in sweat and diarrhea. They do not float in the wind but fall to the floor in a sodden mass of stinking pain. And nothing helps—not conversation, not drugs, not alcohol, not religion or faith—nor any of the other nostrums the unknowing world pushes at you.

I have endured because I have had to. I have been lost in this forest of grief for a very long time. But off in the distance I think I can finally see some small glimmers of hope.

In 23 days, Jane and I would have celebrated our twenty-fifth anniversary. Part of me is terrified by September 2. But part of me wants to embrace it—wants to reclaim the beautiful memories of that day. I can see the beautiful light that filled the church—a light of a hue and quality I have not seen since—and that no photograph could capture.

I can see Jane, coming down the aisle toward me like a white pearl floating in that light. I can see the light dancing in her eyes—and in her eyes see that same light dancing in mine. I can feel the joy of that day and of so many of the days that followed.

Those times have been closed to me these 44 months. I could not see them. I could not hear them. I could not smell nor touch nor taste them. But tonight I can sense their faint shadows in my heart—and those shadows give me hope.

Forty-four months I have been becalmed here, famished and thirsty. Tonight, I smell rain in the air and sense a rising wind. The sails rustle gently—and I dare to hope that I will again see land.

Peace,

Harry

[mfh]

Harry, I hear you. I so understand what you feel and say. We are walking with you.

[enna]

Thank you for continuing to share your story, Harry. It is one that will end up in a book one day and I will be privileged to say, "I know this author."

Healing as we gather around our fire.

[kayc]

Often I don't know what to say to you, you express yourself so well and leave little to be added...but I want to say I'm here with you, and I hear you.

[Queeniemary]

Kay is right, Harry, your writing is eloquent. You manage to put to paper, what we all feel to some degree in our own hearts. I read this on the "Walking with Jane" FB page this morning while having my coffee outside, and cried for you, and for us all. Beautifully written. Thank you for sharing your journey with us.

QMary

[MartyT]

Yes.

[LarrysGirl]

Harry, I think we are all saying "yes, I know" to each piece of your pain as we read your posts. Watching a young man, built like a football player, strong and loving life shrivel away to skin and bones, eye's sunken in his head and no strength to stand without my help, died at 49 and not wanting to go, still wanting to see the Cowboys play, still wanting to go to Notre Dame, still hoping to ride on the beach with me and the beagles. He did not want to go, thats what kills me still.

I appreciate your love and your writing Harry, don't mean to post about me, its just your writing touches us and reminds us. Deborah

[Wifflesnook]

That is what we all feel when reading what you write, Harry. Everyone's sorrows and pain are different but there are so many parallels. I never could express my grief as well as you do, but I'm honoured that you share it with us. I feel I know at least a little of Jane from reading what you write. Jan

[HAP]

Dear friends,

So much for moving forward. This has been the most difficult monthly anniversary in a very long time. I have no energy and no desire to do anything more than mope. I lost it in the cemetery this afternoon. My mouth feels etched in a permanent grimace even the hummer visits can't seem to shake.

I'm making an early night of it, I think, and hoping a good night's sleep will snap me out of this funk.

Peace,

Harry

[kayc]

It's weird how we can't anticipate when it's going to hit us hard, it just comes of its own accord.

[HAP]

Better this morning than I was. But yesterday was just unreal.

--H

[LarrysGirl]

glad today is better for you, nobody knows how hard this experience is until they've lost the one they love. Deborah