Forty-Six Months

[HAP]

Dear friends,

I remember that Thursday night 46 months ago as vividly as if it just happened. Jane had gone into a coma about 10 a.m. She came out of it about noon for a few minutes when she heard Jen Chan's voice. She woke up again for barely ten minutes just before 6 p.m. She could not talk--could barely move her head. I told her she was going home to the garden--kissed her good night.

I remember that Friday 46 months ago just as vividly--the day we turned off the respirator and removed the feeding tube and all the monitoring wires and waited for her body to stop. I remember reading to her from Psalms and Job, reciting pieces of the Tao and chanting our prayers for the dying. I remember the minister in the elevator who came by to be with us despite it not being his floor.

I remember Jen spending her lunch hour with us before going back to the clinic. "My body will be with them--and my mind," she said as she left, "But my heart will be with the two of you." And I remember both Jen and Javid, her cardiologist, stopping by on their way home.

I remember our friends arriving and sitting with us all through the day and into the evening. I remember holding Jane's hand and telling her it was OK to go. I remember talking with the nurses--telling the new ones who Jane was and what she had done in her life--and the ones who had been part of that month-long journey in that room.

I remember the sudden change in her breathing--the little catch that warned me to kiss her one last time--to capture that last breath in my mouth, in my heart, in my soul. And then she was gone.

I remember the intense emptiness of that moment that cut that which we had been together in half and left the us lying dead--and me still breathing. I remember making the phone calls--first to her father and sister, then to my father and my family, and then to our friends. I sat in the room with her cooling body, fighting to deal with the rising agony of numb grief.

I remember Scott driving me home. I remember coming up the stars to the darkened front door and putting my key in the lock. I remember the silence on the other side of that door--a thing so thick and empty that it haunts me even now. I remember crawling into my side of the bed and waiting for the tears or sleep or death--and not much caring which arrived first.

And I remember waking up the next morning to that same pounding silence--a silence that erupts even now--even 46 months later. It took over three years before any memory of Jane outside those last months could fight its way through to my conscious mind. There was so much joy in our first 21 years of marriage--but the tsunami of loss washed them out of me. I knew they were there--I just could not see them or hear them or taste them or touch them or smell them.

Our wedding came back first. Then the day she said she would marry me and bits and snatches from our honeymoon. Sometimes a moment surprises me--a summer walk or hike, shoveling snow or working in the garden--a random moment that bursts into my mind like a July firework and illuminates who we were together.

I remember the first time we mowed the lawn here. We were like two small children fighting over the adventure of who got to push the lawnmower and for how long. I can still see her, the sleeves of her t-shirt rolled up onto her shoulders, pushing that mower down the long straightaway of the backyard--a look of fierce determination and sublime joy etched across her face.

And I remember our first bike ride together--our first date that we never called a date. I remember stopping at a dam in Swansea and sitting there watching the water and talking in the warm sun of an early fall afternoon. I remember our first dinner-date and staying out talking by the ocean until after 2 a.m. I even remember what we both had for dinner that night.

We should still be together--making new memories and forging new paths. But 46 months have passed and any new memories, paths or adventures I will have to create without her. It hurts like hell to think that, to write that, to say that. But it does not change that essential truth.

Part of those new memories will continue to revolve around fighting to find a cure for the carcinoid/NETs that killed her. I've made promises on that I need to keep. But Jane also made me promise to keep moving forward--to keep living and exploring. I'm not done with mourning yet--I don't think I ever will be completely. But I'm not done with living yet, either--and there are places and things I want to explore.

Jane would like that.

Peace,

Harry

[kayc]

I hear you, Harry. And I'm glad you're taking the time to remember...so many memories! I need to do that, take some quiet alone time to just remember all of the different things...our courtship, our love, things we did, talked about, places we went, all of it. The dreams we had! Many of them we didn't get time to live out. But I am here, and somewhere he exists and continues to live in my heart, even as Jane does in yours.

[enna]

Harry, once again you use words that describe the love you have for Jane. Thank you for sharing. Memories are what we have now and it is so good to remember all of them. To write in a journal is such a healing tool ~ there may be a book in your future.

I think that what we are finding around this fire is the importance of moving forward for that is what our spouses would want from us. The journey is not without sacrifices.

Anne

[Queeniemary]

Harry, sometimes it is hard to remember all the wonderful memories, when the death is all one can think about. I go over in my mind, over and over again, the phone call learning of Mike's death, and the next few days. I was in a fog those early days, due not only to Mike's sudden unexpected death, but the pain meds from the knee surgery. I do not always remember things in the order they happened, but they come at me suddenly out of the blue at times.

However, I do remember also some of the great times we had together. We loved road trips, and some of our best conversations were on our trips to Arizona. We loved the scenery and stopping at places unexpectedly to explore. I really miss that so much.

You have a wonderful way of expressing how you feel Harry. Thank you for sharing with us.

QMary

[mfh]

Harry, I so understand remembering all those details. They are imprinted in your heart (and in all of our hearts) forever...the difficult days and moments and the joyful days and moments. Thinking of you today, Mary

[feralfae]

Harry,

I think we are always going to carry these memories. I have been trying to balance out the hurtful memories with good ones, but some days, the sadness is still overwhelming. Some days, it just feels right to sit and cry, and let the tears flow as I write in my journal.

Thinking of you, hoping you are finding some peace in your heart today.

fae

[Wifflesnook]

I can't just read and say nothing. I feel your pain, Harry, and Fae's and Anne's and Kay's and Mary's and everyone's. Mary said on another thread that it took her years to remember the joy. That is the key isn't it? We all felt the love and the joy. The pain will always be with us but they gave us so much joy. I cling to it.

I'm with our daughter and two grand daughters until Tuesday. Which means I'm busy. Which is good. But Pete is here. I know he is.

[MartyT]

♥