Tears in my soul

I want to curl up in a ball and cry until I’m out of tears. This morning I woke up alone again  in an empty house. There is a hole in my life that refuses to be filled, no matter what I do.

 It informs all that you do–and all that you are.

I wish I didn’t care. I’d like to sit in my chair and pretend everything is fine. I’ve spent much of the last month on the road. I go to craft fairs and dinners and meetings. Cancer follows me everywhere.

Tears of loneliness

I went to a luncheon last week at my alma mater. I sat, as I nearly always do, with people I didn’t know. Small-talk always begins with the “What do you do?” question. My answer moves us quickly from light banter to seriousness–or ends conversation all together.

I wish I didn’t care.

No one knows what to say to a widow or widower. No one really wants to talk about cancer. No one really wants to talk about death and what it’s like to hold your wife in your arms as she takes her last breath–or what happens after that.

Tears for the dying

Unless, of course, that is what you, yourself, are facing. The person sitting next to me last week was unaccompanied. His wife has pancreatic cancer. Nearly two years ago, they told her she had six months. I gave him my phone number.

‘What do you do?’

Literally and figuratively, we all hold the hands of the dying in our lives. But no one holds the spouse’s hand; no one holds the children’s hands. It’s the loneliest thing in the world. And then the hand you’ve held is gone between one breath and the next.

Tears of the numb

Sometimes, you cry. Sometimes you are too numb for tears–and you feel guilty about that because you think you should feel something–anything. But you can’t feel the worst wounds. It’s your body’s way of protecting you. Sometimes grief is so great, your mind does the same thing.

…we all hold the hands of the dying…

I’m still numb. Nearly six years later, I’m still trying to cope with Jane’s death. It’s awkward. I lost two people this summer I hardly knew compared to Jane. We worked together on NET cancer things. I cried when they died.

The tears that won’t come

Sometimes, when I stand at Jane’s grave or look at her picture, I feel tears in the corners of my eyes. Only rarely do they come down. My soul is afraid to let them come–terrified that the full force of my grief will take me to a place I can’t return from.

I’m still numb.

Two or three times the grief has overwhelmed me and I’ve cried uncontrollably for a few minutes. Then the terror inside me clicks and reels me back in. I want to be done with this. I want it all to go away. It is the classic, uninvited, guest who never leaves.

Fearing the tears

But if it left, what then? Is the house less empty? Does the loneliness vanish as though it never was? Or does life drag on like the steppes of Russia with everything tasting like mashed potatoes?

It is the classic, uninvited, guest who never leaves.

This week, seven years ago, Jane went back to work after a month of fighting the H1N1 flu and pneumonia. This week, six years ago, we were enjoying the last few days of relative sanity before the decision to move up Jane’s heart surgery put us in separate beds and on separate paths. This week, five years ago, I was preparing to relive those days alone for the first time.

Tears for another

Yesterday, my high school alumni magazine arrived. I have few fond memories of high school–and only two of the people I knew then have in any way stayed a part of my life. I read the magazine anyway–especially the class notes. I’m intrigued by the lives of others fired on similar trajectories from a similar place.

Is the house less empty?

A woman I knew vaguely then, lost her husband to cancer recently. That notice contained the usual words people use in reporting such deaths at the beginning. But the writer went further to describe how the widow was handling things: “They made a great team. His love continues in her heart.”

Tears remind us, don’t define us

I cried then, not for him, but for her. I know, too well, what it means to lose half of who you are; what it means to have that partner’s love continue in your heart. It informs all that you do–and all that you are.

They made a great team.

Tomorrow, I have a meeting with the 3-in-3 group at Dana-Farber. This weekend, I have a craft fair in Tiverton, RI. Next week, I have a scholarship night to attend, a friend to take to the doctor, and a Jimmy Fund event. We fight cancer, one day at a time–one person at a time. It’s what I do.