Why, this is Hell

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.

 It’s the only thing that keeps me sane.

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.

Staving off Hell

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.

I spent four days largely confined to the house…

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.

The Ice Hell

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.

Then it began to snow.

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.

Presentation Hell

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.

…they flood into me like the Red Sea on the Egyptians.

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.

Hell on stage

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.

And then there was Friday.

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.

Edwards’ 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.

Grief is Hell.

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.

Hell in the grocery store

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.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

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.

Marley’s Hell

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.

…and the pain comes roaring back in…

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.

Ending Hell

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.

…maybe today it won’t hurt.

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.