Hell In A Cold Winter

[HAP]

Dear friends,

It's been a rough few days. I hope this will explain my recent silence.

Peace,

Harry

I learned something important over the last two weeks. While I am not constantly aware of the pain Jane's death has caused me, I am in no way fully recovered from that event despite nearly 50 months having gone by. I can pretend, sometimes for weeks at a time, that I am back to a state of normalcy. But that is an illusion--or worse, a lie I convince myself of.

Two weeks ago, I had the latest in an ongoing round of oral surgeries. I followed the surgeon's post-operative directions flawlessly. I iced the site of the latest wound the way one is supposed to, avoided the nuts and crispy foods, outlawed juice, tomato sauce and all the other acidic foods I like, gave up the heavy lifting of my constant training. I spent four days largely confined to the house we built, reading novels to take myself out of the world.

It wasn't enough. No matter how effectively the books populated my mind with other people, when I came out to eat or sleep, I was still alone--am still alone. I posted to my online grief group, trying to stay positive. But words on a screen are useless when what I really need is Jane's physical presence--her voice--even the sound of her breathing.

Then it began to snow. Neither of us liked to shovel snow, but we made a game of it. Jane would start at the garage end; I would go down to the street where the plow had left a drift. We would set to work. Sometimes we pretended we were working on the tunnel between England and France. Other times, it was the transcontinental railway. When we came together somewhere in the middle, we would hug and kiss as though we had been separated for days in celebration of the breakthrough. When we were done, we would come upstairs for hot cocoa, then sit on the couch--her feet buried under my legs to warm them up.

Now, I wheel out the snow blower I bought after Jane's death. There is no romance or fantasy involved in the task. To be truthful, I try to avoid thinking of anything beyond guiding the machine down the driveway. I fail at doing so, miserably. There are too many memories and they flood into me like the Red Sea on the Egyptians.

The days have been cold--far colder than normal--the last two weeks. That, too, isolates me. A group of us has a monthly lunch date. But many of the retired teachers in that group are elderly. They don't do well with the cold. This month's gathering was cancelled as a result. I didn't realize how much I was looking forward to the event until I got the call it was not going to happen.

And then there was Friday. A group of student councils from area high schools was having a conference. I'd been asked to set up a table and do a series of short presentations for Walking with Jane in hopes of getting some of the schools interested in doing fundraisers for the Marathon Walk. I told Jane's story seven times over the course of about three-and-a-half hours.

I taught high school for 34 years. Every class was a high wire act. As Jane said one time, even if you were teaching the same thing five times over the course of the day, the last group deserved as much energy and focus as the first one got. You had to do every show as though it were the first time you'd said it. Great stage actors, great stand-up comics have to have that same attitude.

So that's what I did Friday night with the most wrenching material any teacher, actor or comic ever presented. There's no way to insulate oneself from that much raw emotion--that much reliving of the horror of watching the person you love most die before your eyes. It comes at a steep cost--but I pay it. NET cancer doesn't die if people don't tell their stories--and I want it to die more than I want to live most days.

I understand why people don't do what I do. I understand why people bury the dead not just physically, but also mentally and emotionally as well. I know why many men remarry within a couple of years of losing their spouse--and why many women, given the chance, do so as well. We want to find some way to mask the pain--to bury it any way that we can. Grief is Hell.

I used to teach Jonathan Edwards' "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God." I tried to explain his vision of Hell this way: Have you ever scalded yourself with really hot--literally boiling--water? That pain you feel, right at the outset, before your brain intervenes or the nerves die--that is the beginning of Hell. Now, imagine that initial pain never lessens, never eases in any way--but goes on and on forever at that same intensity--and you never, in any way, get used to that scalding initial pain. That is the Hell of Jonathan Edwards.

Sometimes, I think that is what real grief is like. It never truly ends. But, unlike Edwards' Hell, it ebbs and flows. And somehow, that makes it worse. We get the illusion that we are getting better. We begin to hope that, finally, we are going to stop hurting--that our lives are going to be more than coping with the pain and that we will be able to truly live again.

And then we are walking through a store and see a can of a particular soup on the shelf--maybe so briefly we do not even know we have seen it--and the pain comes roaring back in, overthrowing every coping strategy and barrier we think we have in place.

My problem is that because of what I am trying to do--put an end to this foul cancer--I purposely set off those triggers constantly. Every article I read, every piece I write, every talk I give puts me in contact with the raw emotions I felt the day Jane was diagnosed--and every day thereafter until we buried her.

That makes me a stupid fool who insists on putting his hand in the flames every day because maybe the evidence of the last 100 times is wrong--maybe today it won't hurt. And maybe today I will tell that story to the right person who will have the right skill set to eventually kill NET cancer. But probably not.

We can't stop NET cancer from killing those 34 people who will die of it today. We can't stop NET cancer from killing the 34 people it will kill tomorrow or the next day or the day after. Nothing we can do will bring Jane back to me--or bring anyone else's loved ones back to them. Those are all truths, and we have to live with them.

But our actions today can make a difference for others on down the line. There are thousands--maybe millions--of people out there who have NET cancer and don't know they have it. They have husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, children, loved ones who will feel this pain someday if we do nothing.

So I made a choice. If increasing my pain means that somewhere someone in the future doesn't have to feel what I feel now, then that is a trade I am willing to make--even if it means I lose a week periodically to recover. It's the only thing that keeps me sane.

I look like Hell in this picture likely because I seem to live in Hell these days. But I was at a conference for student council members from the region to talk about Walking with Jane.

[feralfae]

Dear Harry,

You have the courage and the spirit of a knight going forth to do battle with a huge dragon of unknown ferocity. And I have no idea how you endure sticking your hand back into the fire every day. Even unpacking and sorting through one small box of Doug's papers feels like that dragon of memory has stomped on my heart.

It is probably easier to endure the constant fire when you are at your best health and attitude. When you are recovering from surgery, I imagine your energy is needed elsewhere as you heal.

And through it all, you are not merely staying sane: you are staying sane, focused, and determined. You are a gifted communicator, and I don't think the Creator could have found a better person to take on this crusade than you. But I am glad you are taking the time you need to heal and restore your health after surgery.

namaste,

fae

[shalady]

Yes Harry, you are truly courageous and dedicated. I know Jane is so proud you persevere and keep going forward to bring attention to NET cancer. I just can't imagine the pain of telling your story over and over. I hope you give yourself enough down time as it must be totally draining. You are making a difference for those battling now and the ones to come. The knowledge of this has to be quite rewarding. I understand when you say folks remarry to mask the pain. I think that would be selfish and unfair to that new partner. I don't believe I could ever remarry. Being married 38 years I don't feel I'll ever be over this. I will continue to enjoy my memories and get through the daily task of life. I wish you continued success. I also wish you peace and comfort in your memories as well.

Shalady

[Queeniemary]

Harry, I am so sorry you are having such a rough time right now. I think that Fae is right, your energy is concentrating on healing from your oral surgery, and that leaves you more vulnerable. I am holding you in my heart and thoughts. You just look very tired in the picture....get more rest.

QMary

[enna]

Oh Harry, I am guilty of that same lie ~ convincing myself that I am OK, but we all know better, don't we?

The snow and cold in your part of the country have been way too much for anyone. I get cold just watching the weather reports for the Midwest and Northeast and I so want to send everyone some of my warmth and sunshine.

Your boundless energy is amazing. It's no wonder you have to step back once in awhile just to collect your wits.

I understand what you mean when you say that teaching the same class five times means you have to give as much to that first class as the last one. I too would see 170 students daily and each group that came in deserved my best. Oh, to have that same energy I had back then.

Your dedication is inspiring. You have a right to be tired. I hope you honor your needs and take breaks as you need them.

I have a feeling you will continue to put your hands in the fire as long as you continue to follow your passion ~ to educate people on just what NET cancer is. You ARE making a difference, Harry.

Anne

[kayc]

Harry,

I remember that book...I didn't know anyone taught it! I am sorry for all of the emotional gut wrenching pain you are enduring, I know it goes on and on. You are one of the most inspirational people I've met (or haven't ) but I do worry about you burning yourself out, you are just going through so much...the dental work, snow, writing, teaching, gosh it goes on and on and adds up to too much!

I do okay most days but George's absence does hit...like when I had surgery, or when I lost my job, or when someone hit my car, or...anything I go through. and then of course there are the holidays...Valentine's is coming up and I imagine I'll feel it then too. It's just how it is when you lose the one you love. There is always that "missing him" that I have to live with...and will until we're together again.

As Anne said, you ARE making a difference!

[LadyCarrie]

Harry,

I cannot add to what has been said, for it has been said so well. It's all true. Each one of you is making a huge difference in my life, and I thank you, and I thank God for you.

Carrie

[shalady]

I would just like to echo what Carrie said, each one of you, including you Carrie, inspire me and lift me. I too thank God for all of you. Your compassion and understanding is more heartwarming and helpful than I can say.

Shalady

[Wifflesnook]

Harry, you are one of the most inspiring people I have ever 'met' and after all this time on the forum I feel I know you. You give so much of your inner being to your NET campaign but I can only imagine what it means to have to revisit constantly the loss of Jane, and the illness too, when you have to see it happening to others. Much of my life seems to be spent in trying to distract myself from the empty hole at the centre of my life. You can't avoid it because of the way you spend much of your time. I'm sure you know that the path you have taken is the right one, that you are making Jane's death help others, even if it's a hard cost for you. I'm sure she is proud of you wherever she is. I think like mine your 'faith' isnt a. conventional one, but I'm sure as I can be that our beloved ones walk along side us somehow (despite my rational nature I persevere in that). But you don't need us to tell you that you need to attend to your own needs too. What would Jane say?

[HAP]

Dear friends,

Thank you all for your kind words. I wish i felt there was courage in what I do, but I actually think it is less that than being too stupid to know when I should stop and walk away. My father and I didn't get along very well for much of our lives--but I really am his son in being mulishly, stupidly stubborn when confronted with anything. I don't smoke. He did until they told him to stop or die. But when he hit a snag on something he was working on, he would stop and say, "I need a cigarette." That would give him an excuse to stop doing what he was doing and let his subconscious work out the solution. Strangely, when I hit a similar snag, I say, "I need a cigarette." I bring my fingers to my mouth, take a deep breath, and then slowly let it out--exactly as he did, minus the cigarette. Programming--crazy.

I know I am making a difference on NET. But there are other dragons I need to be fighting, too. I have a United States senator this week who says we have to continue burning fossil fuels as much as possible so that the plants will have sufficient carbon dioxide to breathe. I have a governor who says homosexuality is causing autism. I have a president who laughed at "drill, baby, drill" but has overseen the greatest increase in oil drilling in the US in history. In the middle east we have lunatics beheading and burning people because they do not believe as they do.

I was raised to believe in the idea of service. I was raised to believe in the practice of unconditional love. I was raised to accept that we should judge a person's character based not on color, sex, creed, or culture but on the content of his or her character based on the evidence of his or her actions and deeds. You know a tree not by its shape but by the fruit that it yields. I do not understand how the leaders of the world--raised, most of them, in circumstances similar to my own--cannot have imbibed a similar system of values.

I know NET cancer needs me as an advocate, but I feel guilty, periodically, because there are a lot of things that I feel I need to be doing in addition to that. What good is a cure for cancer--any cancer--if there is no one to use it because we have killed ourselves as a species--taking all our knowledge with us?

And yet.

We change the world one life at a time, one day at a time. If you want people to learn compassion, you have to live compassion. If you want the world to learn tolerance, you have to live tolerance. If you want people to learn peace, you have to live peace. And if you want people to learn love, you have to live love. I can't see someone who is sick without trying to help them. I can't see someone who is poor without trying to address their poverty. How any loving God can see what I see with my merely mortal eyes and not act is beyond me--except that adults need to solve their own problems. I did not expect my father to solve my problems after I was 18. Only an immature species demands the Gods save them from their problems. A mature species takes a deep breath and solves the problem for itself.

In a very real sense, this NET cancer work is a vehicle that takes me on a necessary journey. In solving this riddle, perhaps I learn or do something that will make a difference elsewhere in ways I do not see or expect. As Bilbo tells Frodo, it is a dangerous thing, stepping out of ones door in the morning. We never know where the day is going to take us--or if we will come home at all. The one thing that is certain is that the person we are when we go out in the morning will not be the person who comes home that night--even if the trip is only to the market.

Peace,

Harry

[kayc]

Haha, Harry, that's funny! When my son was in the Air Force (he called it the Chair Force since he was stuck at a computer) he said the only ones that got breaks were the smokers (not that different from all the offices I've worked in!), so he used to go outside and stand nearby and "pretend to smoke" and when asked what he was doing, tell them he was taking HIS cigarette break! I hope he didn't stand too close...secondhand smoke is toxic!

I do find that it does help to get up and do something else though, it clears the brain, kind of like a reset button, and gives it the needed break to come back and see things differently, improving our function. I used to stop and take out the garbage, sort the recycling, clean the bathroom, do the dishes, just for a "brain break" from whatever intense task I was working on in the office. It helped!