Bad Day

Today was not an "anniversary day".  It wasn't x months since y.  It wasn't a birthday, or holiday, or celebration that made Brian's absence all the more painful - it was just a horribly bad day of sadness and tears.  Today's memories did not bring smiles - they only heightened my pain.  I know that Brian would have been disappointed in me today for not taking better care of myself, but sometimes the pain is too strong for me to fight off.

Brian, I miss you so much.  I just ache.  I love you.

Broken Heart

I knew that life would never be the same.  I am coming to believe that a broken heart will never mend.  Its body will always be crippled.

Journey

The first night we were in hospice, one of the nurses spoke about "Brian's journey".   I wanted to punch her.  He wasn't on a journey - he was dying.  Destination nothingness.

Now people speak of my grieving as a journey.  A journey where?  To acceptance?  To healing?  This is not a journey.  This is my life.  This is a wound that will never heal; a loss that will never subside.

Please do not speak of my mourning as a journey.  There is no eventual destination.  This is my life, and the most I can ask is for the strength to endure.

Cancer Research

 Today has been 4 months since Brian died. Needless to say it has been a difficult day.

This morning, I had the privilege of speaking with Dr. Dale Greiner of The University of Massachusetts Medical School. Dr. Greiner took the time to explain his research to me. While his background is primarily in Diabetes research, his work offers promise to patients with Cancer, Diabetes, HIV, and other auto-immune diseases. 

                                                            Dr. Greiner

"Our laboratory is focusing on the development of “humanized” mice to study human T1D in collaboration with Dr. Leonard Shultz at The Jackson Laboratory. We have developed unique strains of mice that can be engrafted with functional human cells and tissues, including human islets and human immune systems. We are now using these mice to understand how human beta cells resist killing by a human autoimmune system in vivo, how human beta cells replicate and regenerate in vivo, how human autoreactive cells develop in a human diabetes-susceptible immune system, and how a human immune system targets and kills beta cells in vivo. These approaches are allowing us to understand and dissect mechanisms important in human T1D that cannot be studied directly in humans. Moreover, because these mice readily accept human cells and tissues, we are now using them to study human regenerative medicine, immunity, human-specific infectious agents and cancer."

Those of you who know me well know that my vegetarian soft-heart struggles with animal research. You also know that I would have done almost anything to save Brian, and that if risking the lives of 50 mice could have saved him, I would have done so in a second.

Next month Dr. Greiner will be honored as the first recipient of the Dr. Eileen L. Berman and Stanley I. Berman Foundation Chair Grant to research early detection and treatment of abdominal cancers including appendicial and peritonial cancer. He is one of only a few researchers world-wide focusing on these insidious forms of cancer.

Sadly, it is too late to help Brian. The cancer struck him so cruelly and left us with no viable treatments. Dr. Greiner's work, however, can save others from the same fate. This research can help with early detection, and offer the promise of new and patient-specific treatment options.

Dr. Greiner's work has become my hope. His research has become my charity of choice. Brian's death was senseless and cruel. If I can help spread the word about this promising research, and if by spreading the word, I can help raise funding for this research, then maybe I can be instrumental in finding a cure. Then maybe Brian's death will not have been for nothing.

Donations to Dr. Greiner's research can be made to:

The Diabetes Center of Excellence
attn: Lisa Hubacz, Administrator
55 Lake Avenue North, AC2-208
Worcester, MA 01605

Donations marked for cancer research will be earmarked specifically for this project.

Pain and Tears

It has been almost 4 months since Brian died.  The wound doesn't heal.  It spreads and weeps a nasty puss that no one else can see.  The days are long and painful.  The nights so long and lonely.  I crave the escape of sleep, but it is not granted.  The prescribed meds no longer calm the physical and mental pain.  My body hurts, my mind screams.  Sleep is no refuge. 

I cry each day as soon as I am alone - in the car or in the house.  I can't pray at synagogue without more tears.  My friends and family love and support me.  I am blessed - but I am broken.  I am loved but I am lonely.  I am brave, but I am terrified. I am trying so so hard, but I am failing.

Brian - you are the love of my life.  Your ashes are in a grave, and someday my body will lie beside yours.  But we will never again touch or laugh together.  I can't share the rest of my life with you.  I promise to try to embrace each day and to live it for both of us, but right now I'm failing.  My grief is too raw.  I promise you I won't stop trying.  My love for you goes beyond the grave - it is the one truth I never question.  Thank you for loving me and for sharing the best years of my life.

Tragedy

My husband died at 48.  His death was a tragedy to all those who knew him, and to all those who will never have the chance to know him.

He was the best person I have ever met.  Not perfect, but his flaws were minor.  He was kind, good, smart, giving and compassionate.  His laugh was the most beautiful sound on earth, his smile the brightest.

This year has been the worst of my life.  We spent January 1st watching TV.  Him in bed, sick - not knowing what was wrong, and waiting for answers.  Me by his side - worried, but believing that things would be ok.

Then on January 8th we got the horrible news, and from that day forward my life revolved around his illness.  I spent every day and night with him at the hospital until February 13th when he moved to Hospice House.  I stayed with him in hospice every day and night until April 20th when he took his last breath in my arms.  And I have spent every day and night since trying to understand this incomprehensible loss, and trying to figure out how to live on without him.

Neither of us were perfect, but together we were.  We were meant to be together, and we filled each others lives with love, laughter and happiness.  Now, my life is filled with loss and fear.  I know that the pain will subside, and I WILL somehow live on. 

Today the reality of my life became clear.  The best years of my life are behind me.  My 9 years with Brian were the best years of my life.  Now, at 49, I look to my future, and know that it will never be as bright, as happy, as wonderful as it was.  With luck, I will live for 30+ more year, but I won't have the love, the joy, and the hope that I had with Brian.

How does one look to the future with joy and anticipation, when the best of life is behind you - when life seems more an obligation than a gift? 

I have wonderful friends and family who I love, and who shower me with love and support.  I don't take them for granted.  But I don't know how to live with gratitude in the shadow of such tragic loss.

Fear

It has been three and a half months since my love took his last breaths.  I still have trouble accepting that he is gone, but my life is somehow moving forward without him.

I am so lucky to have so much support.  I have the most amazing friends and wonderful family, and I know that I am not alone.  My friends are there for me, they check up on me, they take me to my doctor appointments, they are amazing, and I love them.  Still, when I come home, I am engulfed with loneliness and fear.  I am hit with the reality that the one person who always loved me, supported me, helped calm my fears, and believed in me is gone.  It is terrifying. 

It is difficult to have to take on all the responsibility of a household.  To know that if I don't do things they won't get done, but it is terrifying to have to face my fears alone. 

I'm having some medical issues - nothing major - nothing like he had to endure, but I'm scared.  He would take me to the doctor.  He would hold my hand.  He would hug me and make everything ok.  Without him, I'm afraid to live, and I'm afraid to die.

I know that my family and friends are here for me.  I know that they will take me to the doctor, will hold my hand or hug me when I'm scared; I know that they'll be there for me.  But he KNEW me as well as I know myself, and he is gone. 

He wanted me to be happy.  He wanted me to be brave.  He wanted me to live without fear.  I'm really trying, and I really do feel like I am being brave - but live without fear?  How am I going to manage that? 

Quiet

Grief sucks.  It is something you can't describe or explain.  It rears its ugly head at the most unexpected times.

I think the hardest part is realizing that my home is now just a house.  It used to be a refuge.  It was filled with so much love and laughter.  There is no laughter in this house anymore.  It's just a building - quiet and sad.