Death and my morning walk–Part 1

I am too closely acquainted with death. I realized this today during my morning training for this year’s Boston Marathon Jimmy Fund Walk. I had barely started the five-mile trek when I came across a dead chipmunk in the middle of the road. A car had crushed it with the same lack of concern that cancer attacks the human body.

They are dying–and I am too closely acquainted with death.

The body was desiccated–almost mummified–and flattened. Most people would not have noticed it–nor given it a second thought if they had. But for me that sudden confrontation brought a sudden memory of Jane in her last days, lying in that hospital bed. Tears welled behind the dams of my eyes: I am too closely acquainted with death.

Deadly reality of carcinoid/NETs

I am too closely acquainted with death. I know at least a half-dozen people who are lying in hospital beds as I write this. Each of them suffers from the same carcinoid/NET cancer that killed Jane. Some will get out of those hospital beds and return home to spouses and children and friends. Some may leave those beds the way Jane did: on a gurney to the hospital morgue–and then to a hearse.

Most people would not have noticed it… 

I know with near certainty that virtually every person I know who has this disease will die of it or as the result of something it causes. They will fight it with everything they can lay a hand on–the same way Jane did. But barring a sudden, near miraculous scientific discovery, their spouses and children and family members will watch the same slow spiral into death that I did. I am too closely acquainted with death.

Death and my morning walk–Part 2

I am too closely acquainted with death. About halfway through my five miles this morning I came across a dead sparrow in the middle of the sidewalk. There was no mark on it, but there it was, lying on its side, legs hanging stiffly in space, its tiny mouth open in a final exhalation: dead. It had no business being dead. Other than its position and lack of movement, it looked fine.

 Some may leave those beds the way Jane did…

But if God notices the fall of every sparrow, only God and I had noticed this death. And while I know I cared about that death–the tears came again as they had with the chipmunk–I can’t testify to God’s reaction. I seem to take John Donne’s quote on death–that every man diminished him because he was involved with mankind–a step further. Every death touches me for I am involved with all living things. And I am too closely acquainted with death.

What does one say to the dying?

I am too closely acquainted with death–and yet I have no idea how to console the sick or the dying in any way that feels useful. I sit with them–figuratively and literally–but I have no words to ease their passing. No amount of handholding, hugs, or kisses–no gestures truly ward them from what they confront.

There was no mark on it…

I remember my last awkward words and actions when Jane came back to consciousness one final time. I told her what I knew was happening as gently as I could. I knew she wanted to be told the truth. It was who she was. But it hurt her more than it consoled her. I could see that. Her brief tears and her eyes sliding away from mine–I woke up for this?–haunt me to this day. I am too closely acquainted with death.

What does God say to a sparrow?

I am too closely acquainted with death. What does one say to someone lying in a bed with all their hopes and dreams lying in smoking ruins around them? I have been in too many rooms like that–held too many limp hands–listened to too many last breaths–and I still have no idea what to say or what to do to make that passing easier.

…I have no idea how to console the sick or the dying…

What does God say to a sparrow in the mouth of a cat? What does God say to a chipmunk facing an oncoming car? Whatever God there is has powers and wisdom that dwarfs my own–but I doubt that entity has any better bedside manner in the hour of death than I do. I am too closely acquainted with death.

What does one say to the grieving?

I am too closely acquainted with death. Yet I still don’t know what to say to a grieving husband, wife, or child. I know only that the platitudes one hears at wakes and funerals are meaningless–useless bits of twaddle that may make the speaker feel they have done something–but do nothing to ease the grieving heart of the widow or widower. My father got it right the night Jane died. He’d lost my mother ten months before. “Now you know,” he said, “That nothing anyone says can ever make this feel better.”

I have been in too many rooms like that…

I’ve tried a different tack since Jane’s death. I come armed to every wake with information about local and online grief groups. I give my phone number to those who do not have it. I don’t kid myself that this does any good. My phone does not ring. I never see these people at the groups I refer them to or find them online in the grief group I recommend there. There really is nothing anyone says that can make this any better. I am too closely acquainted with death.

Death and my morning walk–Part 3

I am too closely acquainted with death. As I came into the last half mile of my walk an ambulance screamed past me, headed in the opposite direction. I knew that inside that box someone was fighting for air and for life. I’m sure it wasn’t anyone I knew. But I have carried them in my heart and in my thoughts all day, just as I have that sparrow and that chipmunk–just as I carry every dying carcinoid patient, whether I know them or not.

…nothing anyone says can ever make this feel better.

One week from today I will be orbiting the track and the Relay for Life of Greater Fall River. At 6 p.m. we will celebrate the cancer survivors in our midst. In some respects, it is the hardest part of the night for me. I am jealous and envious of those longterm survivors–the people for whom we had a cure when they needed it. There is no cure for the cancer that killed my wife. I can remember. I can fight back. But I can’t begin to celebrate while we have no cure for my friends lying tonight in hospital beds with carcinoid/NETs. They are dying–and I am too closely acquainted with death.