How are your sons?

It has been such a long time since I have written here. But never a long time since I have thought about you Jeff.

Today I was at my doctor's appointment. Charlene was so instrumental in helping me get through those first minutes, hours, days, weeks and months after your death. Much to my surprise after asking me about how I was feeling, sleeping, eating, etc and taking copious notes about it all, she asked "how are you sons?" I was so taken a back, blinked several times, thinking that perhaps I hadn't heard her correctly. Then she asked again and I got very very quiet...until she paused and followed up with "....that is, how is your son on earth and your son above us?" I simply didn't know what to say. I was stunned that she would ask me this...yet I felt calmness I hadn't felt before in a while in talking about "my family". I thanked her profusely. It felt wonderful to be able to tell her what Doug was up to and then follow that by telling her what you were up to. I told her about how you had helped me reach out to the Kopp family and the superintendent of Brighton Schools, the boy who had thrown the ball at Ty and Tommy Schmitz and his dad, the coach of the team who played the night Tyler died and Julie, Ty's mom. That was you Jeff...that wasn't me. That was you making your presence known like only you could because I certainly didn't have the strength that week to help anybody. The pain and heartache of your death, Jeff, was so much part of me the week Ty Kopp died. I couldn't read the newspaper or watch TV that week. All I thought about was you.

So for the first time since your body left us Jeff, it felt good talking about my family to someone. I didn't feel awkward or sad or like I was betraying you or making the other person uncomfortable. I felt like I was updating someone on "my guys"...the two young men who continue to bring me so much joy ...who continue to make life worth living...who will always be so much a part of me. You are now and will continue to be "my love" ...always in the present tense. And I continue to love you as much as ever...or as I said so often when your body AND spirit both were with us "more than infinity".

Death of A Friend

My friend Linda died tonight at 5:40 p.m. I guess I thought I was an expert on these things - death that is - but I am not. I am completely at a loss.

Linda's death is the first of a friend/family member since Jeff died. In reality, I just don't know how to feel. I have known Linda since about 1995. I was working with her when I was married and Jim had his seizure -- she was one of about 20 people who surrounded my desk at ViaHealth to hear how Jim was after we rushed him to the hospital and frankly, thought he had had a stroke. Linda was a good good friend when Jim left -- she helped me through many a tearful day. My first divorced Valentine Day, Linda sent me a card. I will never forgot that. It meant so much to me as I was feeling so very very crushed at that time by a separation/divorce that shattered life as I had known it. And Linda was there for me when Jeff died. As I walked behind the casket down the aisle at Jeff's funeral, and took my seat, I looked to the front of the sanctuary and noticed that Dan and Linda were sitting on the bench in the sanctuary reserved for readers. I thought it odd that they were there as they didn't even go to our church, never mind read for the Masses. A minute later, I realized that they were there because there were no other seats in the church and so they took the last available ones. It was incredibly comforting to have them there during the funeral; to see that a good friend of mine had come to show her love and support. It was incredibly comforting.

I had lunch with Linda maybe 5 or 6 times max since Jeff died - but I spoke with her every other month or so. I had the opportunity to get to know her somewhat well when I helped her about 15 years ago during her father's funeral; I helped with Patrick. Patrick was young and Dan's father had died the day before in Long Island. So Linda, being an only child, was left with her young son and her ailing mother to deal with at her dad's funeral. So I went and watched Patrick and helped her out.

I learned of Linda's impending death the day after Christmas when I happened to run into a mutual friend of ours. I was devastated and called her that afternoon and spoke to Dan for about an hour or so. Dan has never been lacking for words. I learned from our conversation only that Linda was terminally ill (when he spoke of his regret at never having gone to Europe with her), but little about her impending death. So the day after that, instead of going to work as I was supposed to, I blew off work to go visit them. I had no idea what to expect -- I thought perhaps Linda would be on her death bed. Much to my amazement, Linda came out and sat in a recliner chatting with me for about three hours. We caught up on everything in each of our lives. She told me about the year's events including her trip to California with Dan, the suicide death of Dan's mother, and her three bouts with cancer -- two of which I had heard about. The most recent bout started in September when she discovered she was out of breath. She went to the doctor, they discovered it was cancer and that it was terminal. She only wanted to live until her son turned 21 and although her doctor told her that she might not, she did. Patrick turned 21 on December 27th.

I had the opportunity to help clean Linda's house with two friends last week, and chat with her again briefly two or three other times. Her breath was labored. But she asked me questions about John and about his kids when we spoke.

I was so lucky to have Linda in my life. I know that she is ok now and that she is at peace and no longer in pain or discomfort. I feel awful for her son and husband as I am too familiar with their pain and heartache. True- it is different from mine when Jeff died -- but I know how deep the pain runs and how lost they must feel. My heart goes out to them.

I need to say something here about cancer, patients and caregivers. Family caregivers. I have tremendous respect and admiration for Dan, for Cindy's mom who cared for her father when he was dying; for anyone caring for a sick/dying relative. I have felt at times during the past 7 weeks completely at wits end. I have felt scared, devastated, completely exhausted, incredibly angry, uncontrollably sad since John was diagnosed with cancer. I have resented my healthy family/friends often.

I had no idea how hard this cancer thing is. I had absolutely no idea how hard it is on the patient - going through chemo and radiation and millions of doctors' appointments and conflicting medical information and feeling exhausted and with no appetite and sick to your stomach all the time, ringing ears, eyes that tear constantly because your eye and tear duct are damaged; no ability to taste; no ability to feel in part of your cheek; a new lower voice that isn't the same because yours was irreparably changed from the radiation; and a balding head. And the thousands of dollars worth of bills and the financial worry.

I had no idea.

It is awful -- this cancer. It is awful on the patient and the family.

This life - it is so incredibly hard. And death is a part of it and although I know we can make death easier in a number of ways --to lose someone you love is so incredibly unbearable in terms of pain/heartache.

So I want you Jeff to welcome my friend Linda as you have welcomed so many others i have known as well.

Linda - thank you for being in my life and for helping me in so many big and small ways. Please help Dan and Patrick and Jane and Kathy and your many other friends who will miss you terribly.

Wrapping my arms around you and holding you tightly -- Thank you my friend.

Mj

The Day After

Started reading "Learning to Dance in the Rain" which my brother John gave me for Christmas last night and it inspired me to publish old posts I hadn't yet published (because of kinks in the system) and to start writing again.

The book came out Dec. 11th and is written by parents of a young girl who at the age of 21 died in a car crash. It is about life after death. Reading that in the cover I was ready to toss it when I opened it yesterday. I have read a lot about life after death, the lights, etc. and yesterday I was in no mood to read more. Fine at times to know that the transition from life to death was beautiful for Jeff, wonderful and comforting to know that he is safe and happy as I know he is, but on Christmas morning as we are opening gifts AGAIN without Jeff, being reminded of these facts does nothing for me.

So I opened the book, read that it was about life after death and felt really angry at my brother for sending it to me.

A common feeling I have about my family right now. Whether it is Jeff's death or John's cancer I feel angry that they --as well as John's family --simply don't get it. Why would I ever care to have a discussion several weeks before Christmas about the appropriate gift to buy John? Since Jeff's death, gifts at Christmas mean shit to me. This year, I feel compelled to simply bomb every image I see of the commercial side of Christmas. It is so very very very far from what is important in life and what the meaning of the holiday is.

DOESN'T ANYONE GET IT????????????????????????

Christmas was good yesterday. I made a beautiful breakfast for John and Doug, Britt and Dave (John's kids) and 'Lainy (my local sista) and her son Cory. The food was good...and sitting around the table looking at them eating and chatting gave me the first sense of peace I have felt in the 4 1/2 years since Jeff died. Cuz that snapshot of life- that moment- to me -was what Christmas is about.
We played "Bananagrams" after dinner- Doug and Dave and 'Lainy and Cory and I while John and Britt chatted. Life simply doesn't get any better than this. I know.

John and I had dinner with Mary Ellen, another sista, and her family while Doug worked. The dinner was great. And even though John took portions appropriate for a 3 year old to eat -- I felt good that he drove over to Mary Ellen's right before the meal and was feeling good enough to be with us. Another unique moment of peace.

Went to Jeff's gravesite after dinner and did my new tradition of lighting a Yankee candle and placing it in a non-flammable bag with some sand in it, and leaving it at the gravesite. I had a good conversation with Jeff and left-- turning to see in the dark how incredibly beautiful the candle looked and knowing that that candle which distinguished every other gravesite last night from Jeff's was an incredibly powerful metaphor/image for Jeff's life.

John went to bed early having exhausted himself with the day's events. I looked at the ads for today's sales (somewhat --quite a bit! --counter to my anticommercialistic ways). Then I opened my new book "Learning to Dance in the Rain" and read several chapters. The chapters I read were incredible!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The book, unlike all the other books I have read about life after death -- tells a completely different story. It tells my story.

Jeff I love you so very very very much and am so blessed to have you in my life.

It Started

So he got through the surgery, got through the teeth being extracted, got through the possibility of the eye being sewn shut, got through the hearing test, go through making another mask for his face and got through the anxiety of postponement after postponement for everything to start. In between were what -- at least five visits a week of prep and more prep. To today.

Today it started. Went with him to Pluta Cancer Center where the greatest health care providers on earth work. Sat in the waiting room while they took him in for radiation which took about 10 minutes. Kissed him good bye so that he could go get his chemo. Went and bought him ear buds so that he could listen to music all day. Returned to the cancer center to drop off at the desk his earbuds when they told me that I could go right into the chemo room. So I went into the chemo room...found him...chatted a bit and left the ear buds. Got into the car and for the first time really since this all began I wanted to vomit.

It is relatively easy to be calm -- most of the time -- about all of this. Has been easy -- more or less -- with support from Elaine, Mary Ellen, Peggy and my family to keep it all in perspective. These are the little battles that must be fought in order to win the war. Sounds good...makes me feel better most of the time. But what do I do when I step into the chemo room and see a number of hospital chairs around the periphery of the room with movable arms -- like the arms they use on chairs you sit in when you give blood. And John's arm is down -- with ice on it -- being prepared for the IV that contains all of this shit to destroy his cells. And what happens if the bad ones aren't all destroyed?

Neither one of us slept much last night. I woke up constantly to see if he was awake -- which he was.

For me, the chemo and radiation concept doesn't scare me. That is just all cramming and studying before the big test. But what if he fails the test?

I simply can't imagine that...My mind can't go there.

I can't focus on the people who I read about last night in the obits who died from cancer. I have to focus on the survivors -- many of whom I know.

And Jeff -- who I know is routing loudly for "Jonathon" as he would say.

I love you so very much, Jeffer. I miss you tons. You should have been with us for Thanksgiving. So hard to hear about your friends from their mothers who I ran into at Wegmans. I continue to be proud of you my love and the life you led.

Mom

Not Knowing

No knowing is so hard. John's surgery was more invasive than we originally thought. So there is an incision the length of his nose - necessary to take his tumour out...and there is one across the bottom of his eye -- under his lower eye lash...necessary to insert a mesh "sling" below his eye socket to support it. The eye socket was weakened by the cancerous tumor. To me, the scar isn't as bad as his eye. His eye has what is called chemosis. It has yellow fluid on the last third of it. He can't close it all the way and he can't see out it properly. So he can't drive.

There are so many things that scare me right know I don't know where to begin.

Mostly all of the unknown - whether his eye will ever be the same, whether he can work again, what the radiation will do to him, what this whole thing will do to him.

Cells, John, Jeff

Last night John and I took a walk with our cell phones. It has been the second time in a week that we have done that.

Sad, that this event alone is bloggable...but it has come to that. Since our cell phones are virtually attached to our hips, going anyplace, including going on walks, hikes, etc. without them, is news.

Last week, we found out that John has cancer of the nasal passages. First time I have written this and it is scary seeing it in print. Even though I know that cancer is not the death knell it once was, it is still scary writing or saying it in the same sentence with the name of a loved one.

John is an amazing man. I haven't written much about him because like an unbelievably incredible sunrise viewed over an Adirondack mountain (and then some), I simply can't describe with enough precision what John is like and what his love and support have meant to me --ESPECIALLY after Jeff's death. John is incredibly caring and kind and is a testament to the true meaning of friend/life mate. John is the giver of boundless love and support and in that regard I aspire to be more like him every day.

John found out about the cancer last week. When he came home and told me the news we started sobbing together...which we have done numerous times since Jeff's death. While we sobbed, he mumbled something that I didn't quite get at first and then it registered what he had said. In between the sobs he said "I can't believe the kind of hand, Mary Jane, you have been dealt in life. I am so very sorry."

That sentence in those circumstances sums up more than any other I could write the kind of person John is.

Several days before we found out, I was in the house alone in the kitchen--John having gone out to pick up his daughter, Britt. A couple of minutes after he left, I heard several sirens blaring and of course jumped to a quick conclusion. (Ever since Jeff's death I quickly unravel when I hear a siren after someone I love has just departed.) My heart started beating incredibly fast. I called him twice and text him twice and didn't hear from him for what seemed like hours. I was completely beside myself knowing that he had died in a car accident. Then I started with the self talk- reminding myself of why I felt that way and breathing deeply. When he finally called me I started sobbing.

And this before hearing about the cancer.

So the end of last week and this week I have done what I know I need to do-- shore up every single resource I have; surround myself with all the love and support I can find; and solicit pray-ors to be able to be there fully for the man who has truly been by my side for better and for worse.

I have reached out to my psychologist, my close friends and family, my God; I have regularly asked for hugs; I have added more comedies to my life and significantly reduced the number of crime shows I watch on TV; I have turned down my cell phone-or better yet -- left it at home; I have reduced the amount of coffee and alcohol I drink; I have turned off the computers and other electronic devices more quickly; I have started an ongoing dialogue with Jeff; and I am trying hard to "sit with" the people I love and the air I breathe to enjoy both while I am able to.

And I have started back at writing.

And for all of that I am incredible thankful.