I am not ok.

It is Friday night. This was our night to go out. We would leave work and go out for an early dinner. I would have my glass of wine. Afterwards, we would go to Dunkin’ Donuts and I would get her a large coffee, me a hot chocolate and a couple of doughnuts we would share. Most nights we would go home and curl up on the couch. Some nights we would go to a movie or a play.

It doesn’t sound like much. I can’t explain the romance of it. Even as I write it, it seems mundane and anti-climactic. But at the end of a long week it was all either of us really wanted: some time to be with each other, some time away from the books and the papers and the reminders of our jobs, some time to reconnect and pretend we lived the lives of normal people.

I went for a walk this afternoon. The weather was too nice to sit in the house working on this website or the Relay for Life or any of the other projects that are waiting for me. My barber reminded me this morning that I need to take some time for me more often. He’s right–but I am not sure how well I can follow his advice. The disease is still out there. Ignorance is still out there. Pain is still out there.

Of course, they will still be out there no matter what I do. But neither Jane nor I  ever gave up easily.

People keep telling me Jane would be proud of what I have done these past 14 months. People keep telling me they are amazed–some even say inspired–by how positive I seem to them–by how much I do–by my desire to save others from what we went through.

The truth is, though, that I am too aware of where I am falling short. The information for the pieces on administrative costs  and how much charities spend on actual program costs have been on my desk for a week–I have not touched either. There are three other projects that need my attention three days ago. I have not touched them either. I feel guilty about all of that.

Part of me wishes I had loved Jane less so that the eagle gnawing on my liver would be easier to endure. Part of me wants just wants to go into the bedroom, curl up in a ball on the floor, and ignore the world and everyone in it. Part of me wants to let half the world die so everyone left can feel what I feel.

But the rest of me simply is not wired that way. I cannot love any other way than the way I love her–completely and without reservation. I cannot conceive of any other way to love. Jane and I loved each other. But we loved the people in the world as well. And we loved them as we loved each other.

Jane’s death did nothing to change that. There are people who hurt in the world. There are people who are ignorant in the world. There are people who need help in the world.

So I can’t curl up in a ball and sink into my own pain. I have to get up and fight through it. Jane said before she went into the hospital that if she didn’t make it that she wanted me to go on and enjoy my life–not get bogged down in the loss and the hurt.

But she also knew who I am. And I hope she understands why I can’t go there.