And Now This...

[HAP]

Dear friends,

Kay's line about the Golden Years reminds me of how we call God's Country every bit of desolate land we come across. We humans put nice words to anything truly bad. We say "passed away" or any of a dozen nicer euphemisms instead of "died." And I wish people understood how meaningless, "I'm sorry for your loss," truly is. Sorry, my two pieces for walkingwithjane.org collected a lot of those kinds of comments yesterday. They are what we say when we don't know what to say--and they are used so often that--like any cliche--they have lost their meaning and their power.

Not that I have any better words to replace them with. I just wish people would take the time to say what they are really feeling in their own words than in some conventional stock phrase. We hide from death, we modern humans. We put it and grief behind these walls of formality and empty words that strip away what it really is and what it really means. As a result, we come to it finally, and it strips us to the bone in ways I am not sure are healthy. Or maybe they are. I only know I am sick to death of death. It is, like cancer, my constant companion.

Everything and everyone dies. Intellectually, I understand that. Emotionally? I understand that, too. But I feel like a puppy someone is trying to house train--and I am bitterly sick of the feeling I am having my nose rubbed in it endlessly. What is the point of this exercise? Are we trying to re-enact Job? Nice, but really--reruns? Trying to demonstrate the futility of it all? Like that's going to change me trying to make things better. More likely, it's just random noise that is driving me nuts just because I still feel things. It changes nothing in my underlying existence and beliefs--only reminds me of the urgency of what I am trying to do--of what Jane and I tried to do every day of our lives--make life better for those around us--one act of kindness at a time.

The world is changed by every act of unconditional love we engage in--and changed for the better. The change created from a single such act is infinitely small--but a lifetime of such acts builds a wave--and a lifetime of lifetimes, a tsunami. So we held the hands of the sick and the dying, of the halt and the lame, of the poor and the homeless. I keep doing that, not as an homage to Jane or as a matter of habit but because it is what we are, each of us, called to do. That call rages within me and I cannot turn my back on it. Nor do I want to.

Every time I think about taking a break, there is another person diagnosed with something awful or given their death. None of us can tell those we love to wait for us to recharge our batteries when they need us--when they are desperately in need of us and whatever ease we can give them. As Kay says, part of the problem is I've never met anyone who did not become a friend--who did not immediately have the right to call on me when they needed me. I had not heard from my friend Katherine for 40 years when she was diagnosed with terminal breast cancer, but when she called I would not--could not--turn away from her need.

None of you would have turned away from her either. You welcome new folks here every day--and no matter how badly you may be hurting yourselves, you do not turn away from their pain or their need. A new poster does not wait long for words of consolation and aid that go way beyond, "Sorry for your loss." We use them here--but they are not the words of the receiving line. They are accompanied by real consolation, by the sharing of stories and advice gleaned from our own experiences with real loss.

Being empathic does not help me much. I walk into a room sometimes and the pain can rise up in a wave. Wakes are always palpable experiences for me--as are funerals. Hospitals--the desire to walk into every room and try to help is enormous. When I hear pain in someone's voice, "I'm OK," is not a reply I can easily let pass unexamined.

In the Doctor Who TV series, someone says the Doctor needs a companion because he needs someone physically present to tell him when to stop--or to bear part of the burden when stopping is not possible. Jane was my companion--and I was hers. In less than a month, it will be four years since I lost her. There is no one to remind me to go into the woods or up on the mountaintop for a while, no one to get me out of a wake as soon as I have consoled the grieving, or to remind me to go eat something. More importantly, there is no one with the power to make me do any of those things--to make me take a real vacation where there are no responsibilities for a few days--no one who can block out the emotions that roil around me every day.

For a quarter century, we did that for each other. Now...

You folks mean well when you tell me I need a break. But I cannot walk away from what is swirling around me--and you cannot take up the part of that burden Jane would pick up without a second thought.

I'll take an extended break--and it will be soon. And I'll take a night off when and where I can between now and then--maybe even tonight.

Peace,

Harry

[kayc]

Harry, I admire your tenacity...but I also worry about you. I do hope you'll take a break soon, even if it's in small chunks. Exhaustion doesn't do a lot for one's frame of mind, and you're already being overtaxed with everything going on!

Nearly four years...nearly ten for me. The odd thing is, after about three years, I really didn't notice any difference, it hasn't changed much since then. Maybe that's the bulk of the adjusting period. I don't feel frantic as I did in early days, no longer in shock, no longer expect him to walk in or call, I know he's not around to talk to or help me, I get that. But I still miss him each and every day and it's every day that I wake up that I have to live with that. Sure, I'm used to it by now, I didn't think that would be possible at one time, but there's a certain amount we just have to live with and a certain amount we just have to miss.

[Wifflesnook]

Kay I think that is becoming true for me. That it's now almost three years since my Pete died and I've reached a plateau of loss. I will never be anything else but sad right through, but I have to plod onward nevertheless. Harry, we watch you in awe and worry about you too. My path trying to find meaning in a life without Pete by by side isn't the same as yours. I don't spend my time helping other people. I do everything I can for my daughter and her two little girls and worry that if I wasn't here she would find life even harder. I try to tend my soul by meditating and I still work on research for my various history projects. I'm going to write something in Anne's thread on Living with Loss. It might help me to think about my life. But this is about you, Harry. I know what you mean about the trite phrases but if we did open our hearts when would we ever stop? How rare is it to truly share our pain, even on here where we can say what we like?

We confront the human condition on here whilst people carry on their contented lives as we used to do. I always knew that underneath was an abyss, even when I was happy, but I brushed it aside. And thank goodness I did. Now I have to look into it. But I find now that what keeps me going is the fact that I was truly and deeply loved and I loved back. And no one can take that away from me. And Harry, the reason so many people turn to you must be because you love the reflection of your Jane in them.

[kayc]

But I find now that what keeps me going is the fact that I was truly and deeply loved and I loved back. And no one can take that away from me.

This is what keeps me going too, Jan, that and my Arlie.

[HAP]

Dear friends,

I went out last night to a pub I know that does live acoustic music on Tuesday nights. Everyone is there for music and company. A former student is behind the bar and makes sure everyone gets to know everyone else. It's not a big crowd most nights, but the conversation is good, the jokes are corny, and no one is trying to find a date.

I'll be at Visiting Committee for DFCI the next two days. Tom Brokaw is tonight's after dinner speaker. We'll have drinks with other donors, committee members, doctors and researchers beforehand. I'll stay overnight in Cambridge at the hotel the event is at because our meetings start at 7:30 a.m. Tomorrow night, I'm having dinner with another former student before driving back. That dinner will mark the end of the heavy lifting for this month on the NET cancer front. There are still some little things I need to do the next few weeks on that front, but nothing like the prep work and production of the last six weeks.

I'd planned the next two weeks to be relatively low key. Given what is happening with Jane's family, that may or may not happen. In December, I'll start pulling together the materials for the book people tell me I should write. I suspect a lot of it is already written as I think about some of the things I've written here and elsewhere the last four years. I think that will help me finally come to terms with some of the issues that continue to plague me. If not, maybe the effort will at least help someone else.

I have to say, I agree with what both of you have said above, especially the line Jan pulled out of Kay's post. To quote Adrian Mole, "Sometimes, love is all that keeps me sane." It's meant ironically in context, but it really is the truth sometimes.

Lots to do before I get on the road today. Be well, all of you.

Peace,

Harry