I sat down at the computer last night with the best of intentions. But what had started out earlier in the day as a two hour drive from Western Mass. through country I had not seen in decades at some point turned into a four hour nightmare involving a blown tire, a rim that had fused to the brake drum, an annoying offshore conversation with my auto club (which appears to have sent all its customer service, including emergency road side assistance, to people on the far side of the world whose acquaintance with the American Highway System consists of what they can see on Google Maps), visits from two very helpful state troopers and an official breakdown specialist, two helpful passersby, and, finally, 45 minutes earlier than promised, the guy with the tow truck.

I think we forget sometimes the number of truly good and nice people in the world today amid all the corporate and political craziness that leads us to other conclusions.

By this point you are wondering what all this has to do with neuroendocrine cancer and carcinoid syndrome. As I sit here on an overly warm and muggy New England morning musing about the events of yesterday I am also reminded of the incredible kindnesses Jane and I encountered during her last months: from the nurse who came in to sit with Jane right after her doctor told her he thought she probably had cancer, to the people at the inn who arranged a special room for us overlooking the lake for our last night of our last vacation. There were doctors and nurses every step of the way who quickly moved from caregivers with imposing titles and resumes to people we could talk to. Eventually, they became friends we could count on to tell us the truth about what was going on.

I think about the people at work who nightly took the calls I made to the principal–or anyone else–and sent the information out over the network we had established for snow days so that everyone would know how things stood. I think about the friends who gave up their Thanksgiving so Jane’s father and sister could be with her in her hospital room for one last family Thanksgiving. I remember the families of the other long-term patients in the ICU and the tight bonds we formed to support each other in our times of deep trouble. I remember the friends who came to visit, making the long drive through the traffic to and in Boston from our little corner of the world.

I remember Helen driving me from Newton to Brigham & Women’s and inviting me to sit and talk in her living room, just to get me away from that hospital for a few more minutes. I remember the nurses who made sure I got something to eat every day, that I got into the shower every day, and that I tried to sleep some every night.

And I remember the friends who came to be with me on that last day when my whole world was shattering into Humpty Dumpty-style pieces. I remember Jen Chan coming through the door just before noon that day on her lunch break to sit with us, not as a doctor but as a dear friend–and saying on her way out to see her afternoon patients that her body would be with them, but that her mind would be with us all afternoon. I remember Javid Moslehi making that same pilgrimage later in the day–again, as friend not as doctor. I remember the chaplain I had met in the elevator dropping by to visit, even though it was not his floor. I remember John and Gail sitting there with us through the hours. I remember Scott staying with me far into the night to be with me at the end and to help make the calls that had to be made–and then driving me home and back again the next day so I could get my car out of another friend’s driveway.

And I remember the words Scott relayed to me from the young woman in the Shapiro Family Center who had talked with me every night after dinner after he told her the news that Jane had passed away: “Thank you. I am going to go cry now.”

There were constant kindnesses from both our oldest and dearest friends and from people we hardly knew.

And those kindnesses have continued since Jane’s death–from the hundreds who attended Jane’s wake  and funeral, some literally flying across the country to be there, to the hundreds who have made donations of time and money and effort to the work of helping try to find an answer to this cancer, to the people who write me and call me and make sure I get out and go for a hike or out to a concert or a roller derby or a play or in some way take a break.

There are times I feel like Prometheus, chained to his rock with an eagle gnawing on his liver. There are times I feel like Atlas with the weight of the world on his shoulders. There are times I feel like Job sitting in the ashes of his burned out farm.

And then a random act of kindness happens–sometimes not even directed at me–and I forget the pain, I forget the weight, and I understand Job’s answer.

To all of you, both known and unknown, my thanks.

Just now three geese flew overhead so close I could hear their feathers keening above the sound of their honking. The number three has always held deep meaning for me, though not in the traditional Christian sense.

But I will take that as a positive omen: that together we will find the cure for this cancer, and that together we will all make this a better world through our individual random acts of kindness.

Go do something nice for someone today. You can never be certain how that will help them lift the burden they may be carrying.