Keeping hope alive

Grades closed for the first quarter at my high school five years ago today. I was supposed to finish grading some papers by Friday so I could post them on the computer before report cards were printed and sent out. But I also knew Jane and I were headed to Boston the next morning for another meeting with Jen Chan, her oncologist at Dana-Farber. I was worried about that appointment in ways I hadn’t been before.

…Jane’s body died and took part of my soul with it

Jane’s legs and abdomen were more swollen than they had been just two weeks before. She had stopped going to the basement entirely and the previous weekend had sent me out alone to do the grocery shopping. Neither the long-term Sandostatin nor the multiple daily octreotide injections seemed to be doing much good. But I worked hard not to let her see I was worried. I wanted her to stay optimistic.

Anger explodes

I know now that Jane was equally concerned. She had seen our neighbors a few weeks before–just prior to their departure for Florida for the winter. She’d told them she didn’t expect to be here when they came back. She felt, I think, that she needed to stay positive for me the same way I felt that for her.

I was worried…

I’d spent the previous weekend buttoning up the gardens around the house and giving the lawn a final mowing. As I carried a pile of brush to the composter, my foot went through the sod into a sinkhole. I lost my mind for a few seconds. It made me insanely angry and I let all the pent-up anger and frustration of the last several months boil out of me in a primal scream.

Explaining anger

The anger hadn’t entirely dissipated by the time I came back in. My voice was still strongly tinged with anger when I told Jane what had happened. “Why are you more angry at this than you ever are about my cancer?” she asked. Her own voice was tinged with anger and hurt.

 I lost my mind for a few seconds.

So I told her. I was calm about it–completely rational. I told her I was absolutely furious about her cancer–and I was. But I didn’t dare let that anger and hurt and frustration out. I had to stay calm because I had to be able to hear what her doctors were saying to us and understand it. I needed to be able to listen critically to what they told us so that I could ask the questions whose answers terrified us but that we needed to hear.

Caregiver anger

And I told her I was terrified that if I let that anger out some of it would splash over on her. She hurt badly enough, I said. I didn’t want to add to that hurt. “I hate this cancer,” I said. “I hate what it does to you. I hate that it makes you angry–hate that the anger gets directed at me sometimes. But when you get angry with me I remind myself that most of the time it is the cancer talking–and not you–and that if I let myself get angry back it isn’t going to help anything.”

I was absolutely furious about her cancer…

I’d watched her get ready to give herself an injection every morning for months. I’d watched her prep the hypodermic, draw out the fluid, cleanse her belly with alcohol swabs, then push the needle into her body and press down on the plunger. I’d watched her go through the same procedure every night, knowing that earlier in the day she had done the same thing when I was not around.

Bargaining in anger

I could see the marks the injections had left on her stomach. I knew there were ways I could not touch her without causing her pain–even a hug could be too much. And I could see how little good those injections seemed to be. It hurt me in my soul to see all that and know all I could do was hold her hand and smile and whisper constant encouragement.

She hurt badly enough…

There were times, when I was alone, that I looked at the heavens and said, “If you’re going to take her, do it quickly and be done with it.” I felt guilty every time I said that–truth be told, I still do. It’s a horrible thing to wish for the death of someone you love. It feels like the worst kind of betrayal no matter how much it may seem like the merciful thing to do.

Changing the landscape

We didn’t know, as we got into bed that night, that Jane had just a month left to live. We didn’t know that we would sleep in the same bed just three more times. She was, however, smart enough to make sure we said our good-byes that weekend after her heart surgery was set for the following Monday. She told me she fully expected to come home again–that she would not die from this surgery or its aftermath–but just in case…

It feels like the worst kind of betrayal…

A lot has happened in the 59 months since Jane died in my arms. The landscape of NET cancer has changed in some significant ways. Most of it has nothing to do with Jane’s death or my actions since then. Most of it was already in the pipeline. I’m not sure anything major changes in treatment or research if I had just curled up in a ball around my grief and disappeared.

What I might have done

Part of me wishes I had done just that. Perhaps then I would not still find myself wandering the house–moving from room to room aimlessly and watching hours vanish with no idea where they have gone. Perhaps then I would not have a dozen projects lying around me half-finished. Perhaps then I would have done what Jane asked me to do in that long Saturday conversation where we said good-bye.

The landscape of NET cancer has changed…

She told me she loved me; that she wanted me to find joy in life again, wanted me to fall in love again; that she fully expected me to go on with my life. Instead I dream of her last months and of trying to find her when we get separated in a store or in the woods. I dream she is lying next to me–and then wake up to find my arms wrapped around a pillow.

What we did and what I do

Every day, I get up. I eat breakfast. I read the newspaper. I craft a list of things I need to do.

Then I sit down and try to do the one thing I know really makes a difference: work to bring hope to patients and caregivers. Some days it’s comforting patients; some days it’s trying to figure out how to explain the latest bit of science; some days it’s helping caregivers understand what they are feeling is normal; some days it’s helping those who mourn find ways to cope; some days it’s trying to figure out how to raise a few more dollars for research; some days it’s about trying to build structures that will help people when I can’t do this any more.

…I dream of her last months…

Fifty-nine months ago today, Jane’s body died and took part of my soul with it. Fifty-nine months ago today, I stopped being Jane’s caregiver and returned to the work we had always done together: trying to help those who needed what we had to give.