I went to see a doctor this morning for a follow-up on the problem with my larynx. I had been fighting a problem with hoarseness most of the fall. My primary care guy sent me to a specialist who put me on some medication and sent me to a voice therapist. She gave me some exercises to strengthen my vocal chords–which I have been trying to be faithful about doing for the last couple of months.

The appointment went well. I can stop taking the medication but need to keep doing the exercises twice a day until I have fully strengthened the voice again. I will likely keep doing them indefinitely because I need to keep my ability to speak in front of an audience without a microphone–as a point of pride if for no other reason.

After that I went to get a haircut. Then–let’s just say I engaged in a lot of avoidance behaviors. I just did not want to come home. I had three projects to do here today, but they all had emotional content I did not want to deal with.

The problem really started yesterday afternoon. I did an interview with someone who works for Dana-Farber’s donor magazine about the Walking with Jane Dybowski Fund for Neuroendocrine Cancer. He asked me about the inspiration for the fund and the other parts of this operation, which took me back to how Jane and I met and our life together and the slow development of the symptoms that eventually led us to Dana-Farber and Brigham & Women’s and the heart surgery and the hope and the despair and her death and my going on with the work we had set for ourselves.

I keep expecting that going back through all that will get easier over time. I am a fool to think so. I don’t recite the story–I relive it. And in reliving it I feel everything all over again the way I felt it in those days. For a time immediately afterward I am as numb as I was the day after Jane died. To the outside world I seem to function well enough–but the outside world is not living in my brain.

I find myself wandering the house aimlessly. I look at the clock and hours have passed in what seems like minutes. There are rooms I cannot enter and closets and drawers I cannot open. I want to be out where there are people, but I don’t want to talk with them or interact with them at more than a superficial level. And I want to drive the people who are close to me away from me as far as possible.

I don’t want to ever be in a position where I can be hurt like this again.

Gradually, I come back to myself. The pain eases. I can deal with the house again. I can open the drawers and the closets again–I still cannot bring myself to go through them, but I know the day will come.

People want to believe that grief is a one year thing–that on the one year anniversary, someone waves a magic wand and the mourner is wholly healed. It does not work that way.

I am better than I was a year ago. That has to be enough for now.