Life is short - Live it to its fullest...

Also known in my world as the grief excuse.

This first photo was taken in Wisconsin, July 2006. A month and a half prior to Jim's cancer diagnosis. I was running consistently and was very fit for someone who historically avoided athletics. Jim and I ran together that trip. I totally kicked his ass. I razzed him unmercifully about it. That's important to note because in less than 6 weeks, we would find out just why I could run circles around him. I have a really difficult time letting go of the fact that I teased him instead of knowing something was really wrong. I should have known. I should have done something. I should have... haunts me to this day.

 



 The second photo was taken in NYC about 7 months later. I'm running sporadically, but not sleeping very well and starting to medicate stress with Xanax, sleeping pills, nightcaps, and ice cream. I'm spending as much time as I can trying to find the cure for Jim's cancer. Just to save you all some time, it doesn't exist in books, at medical seminars, or on the Internet.

In September of 2007, Jim died. So did just about anything else for those of us who loved him. The next year was horrid. An entire of year of heart-wrenching firsts. I didn't run. I didn't exercise. The Xanax and sleeping pill prescriptions were long gone, but I continued to self-medicate with alcohol and sugar. Those of you who've read this blog, know I spent that first year, trying to find Jim at the bottom of Edy's ice cream cartons. The pounds are starting to really pack on, but I tell myself, it's only 10 lbs. Once I "finish" grieving, I'll be able to get it off.

The year went by and I came out of that haze of the first year. I started running again. I took to the road to talk to Jimmy. I cried many tears on those runs. In 2009, I ran a lot of races in Jim's memory - the Lilac 10K, the Boilermaker in Utica, the Rochester Half Marathon. I'm up 15 pounds and almost a full two minutes per mile slower than in 2006, but I looked at myself and said "So what? I'm not as young as I used to be and look at how fit I am!" Pass the beer and the ice cream please. For every calorie I burned running, I put two extra in my body. But I DESERVED it, I crawled out of the hell of that first year missing Jim and got my ass moving again. Pass the beer and the ice cream again please - nothing bad happened to the ones I love today.

Life can be short, so let's celebrate today's happiness! I realized in the back of my head that this wasn't really healthy. I need a goal - I couldn't save my brother, but maybe I can save someone else's. So off I go...training for a marathon. I spent eight months training to run 26.2 miles in Jim's memory and raise money for the Colon Cancer Alliance. Because I was training for a marathon, for every calorie I burned running, this time I put three in my mouth. But it's okay because I'm training for a marathon! The magic caloric math will happen on those 16 and 18 mile training runs. Funny thing, I gained another ten pounds and slowed down another minute per mile.

In January of 2011 I ran my marathon. In the picture on the left, I am at mile 10 - now 25 pounds heavier than the first picture and 10 lbs heavier than the picture above. The aches and pains of hauling all that extra weight on my 5'2" frame for 26.2 miles, was awful. I crossed the finish line and said "Never again." What that translated to was "Stop all exercise immediately." Oh, I would get on the treadmill about once every week or two to make sure I could still "run" a 5K. Eventually that became once a month or the day after I got on the scale. I did try and cut out the sweets. But I continued to live my life as if every day might be my last. I raised every glass, took a bite (or two or three) of every decadent food that came across my path. I celebrated every evening Mark and the kids were safe and sound. 

Five years leading me to my lovely final photo, taken right before Christmas this year. It shows every single pound of the 35 I've gained.

Mark got a new job in July. I was so embarrassed about my weight, that I didn't want to go to Mark's company party and meet his new coworkers. I was thrilled when he got sick and we couldn't go. How's that for living life to it's fullest?

So here I sit, sweaty from my 5th day in a row on the treadmill. I wonder:

How did I go from "living life like every day might be my last" to "living life to put myself in an early grave" and just what am I prepared to do about it?

The light in our eyes

Today was the five year mark of Jim's death. Every day is still difficult, but anniversaries even more so.

Kate changed her profile picture on Facebook to one Rachel took of the two of them. They were both scrunched down trying to get in the frame at the height of a three-year-old. They are clearly laughing and happy.

What struck me about the photo is what I don't see when I look in the mirror; what I don't see looking across the supper table at my parents; what I don't see in the faces of Kate, Jim's in-laws, and the others who took his death so hard. In the photo of Jim and Kate, there's a sparkle in their eyes. You can see it in the other photos from when Jim was still with us. Now...there's no sparkle, that pure joy is missing from our eyes.

We've all got our new normal. But it's a new normal without Jim and it sucks. We live, we laugh, and we go on - one day at a time, but the sparkle, the light that was Jim, went out. It went out in all of us, and no matter how hard we try, it isn't something we can relight. Our photos now have the eyes of our new normal - sadder and without the light was Jim.

Maybe it's time for it to be all about me...

It's been a rough 4 years and 8 months. For a long time, it needed to be about other people. The first year, it needed to be about Jim. I wouldn't have wanted to be any other place than standing beside my brother as he battled cancer. As Jim's health declined, so did all of ours. Stress has a way of eating at you from the inside. I filled the space in my body that stress took away with 10 pounds. The second year, it needed to be about family. Again, I wouldn't have wanted to be any other place than standing beside my family grieving together. Our health declined. Grief also has a way of eating at you from the inside. I filled the space grief took away with another 10 pounds. Then came the eggshells. You know the eggshells. The ones you walk on so as not to offend.

Kate's dating. Ouch. I'm happy for you. I know it's good for you.
Kate's engaged. Double ouch. I'm happy for you. I hope he's a good man for you and the kids.
The kids are experimenting calling him dad. Triple-diple ouch. I'm happy for them. It's not fair they grow up without a dad.

You see, it's not about me. It's not about how terribly sad I am that Kate and the kids don't have Jim. It's not about the pain that goes through my heart knowing the kids will call someone else "Dad." It's not about how awful I feel that life has to go on without him. We all want him back, but that's not going to happen. It's about lives needing to go on without him. ("Easy for you to say" says the heart to the mind.)

But see here's the thing...I believe now that it might need to start being all about me. Holding it all inside - 10 lbs of stress, 10 lbs of grief, for four + years has culminated in one very unhealthy body. One that feels 10 years older than her chronological age. I'm beginning to realize that it has to be all about me before I lose me altogether.

In this very public forum, I'd like to thank my angel, Lynn. She was there in the beginning of Jim's cancer journey. After he died, she patiently waited for me. Many times approaching me, but finding my heart not ready to make space for me again, she quietly stepped back to wait some more. Yesterday, she came to me like a butterfly. I was finally ready to see the beauty of me that awaits. It's going to be a journey back to health. I imagine it won't always be easy, but yesterday I stepped onto that path with Lynn. It's finally time for it to be all about me.

"I'm harder on you because life will be harder on you"

Tough words from my dad. I was teenager at the time and complained to him about something not being fair between Jimmy and me. I don't even remember what it was I complained about, but I sure do remember those words. I also remember the words that followed. The ones that told of how he watched life be unfair to his mom and my mom because they were women. He didn't want to see his daughter have the same life as his mom. He knew I had to be tough. In his mind, tougher than Jimmy, because I was going to need to stand up to a lot of crap thrown my way because I was female. I was going to have to fight to be seen as smart and allowed in honors and AP classes. I was going to have to fight to get into a technical program at college. I was going to have to fight for the same pay for the same job as a man. I was going to have to stand up to overt and subtle sexist prejudice every day. For the most part, he was right.

I share this story because my parents were my parents. Their job was to raise a self-assured, smart, compassionate, productive adult. They never tried to be my best friend. I had plenty of those my own age. As I've raised my own children, I realize that it is difficult to provide parental guidance and discipline. It's so much easier to "let it slide" and hope for the best. However, that always seems to backfire. I've learned along the way that discipline isn't punishment. It's a natural consequence to an action. Sometimes those natural consequences are just as uncomfortable for me as they are my kids. When I start to squirm, I remember how much love was in my dad's voice as he explained why he was so hard on me sometimes. I was his little girl. I'm sure he was thinking about how difficult it is to be a parent then too.

I'm grateful for the example my parents set. I try every day to be a good parent to my children. They won't always like it, but I hope someday they'll say the words to me that I now say to my parents - "Thank you for being a parent. Thank you for showing me how to stand up for myself, to understand that actions have consequences, that I need to treat others fairly, and that no matter what, you will always be there for me and my kids."

Melissa's 300lb. plan

My former running partner, Melissa, jokingly refers to her food and exercise routine as the 300lb plan for it's inconsistency and her lack of motivation. I've been on that plan since January 10th, the day after the Disney Marathon. I've basically stopped running. Oh about once a week, I force myself on to the dreadmill to try and convince myself I haven't totally abandoned running, but my heart just isn't in it. I'm now trying to decide "Am I a runner?"

I've never run for the pure joy it brings me. I started running because Melissa and I got bored with walking and she said "Hey, I have this run/walk plan to do a 5K." That was in 2005. I kept running on and off over the past 5 years to help me deal with the stress of Jim's illness and grief of his death. Then I ran to complete the marathon we planned to do together - some unfinished business with Jim. Now I feel like I'm done. I don't see anything there for me now. I've never been an athlete. I'm a back-of-the-packer. I've never cared about becoming faster. Oh sure, the competitor in me does try and beat a previous time at races, but for the most part, running was just plodding along trying to go a particular distance.

I've considered that this is depression talking. It's still cold and icy outside. The sun looks inviting, deceiving you into believing it's not frigid out. You open the door and get that blast of cold reality. I have three friends within the past two months diagnosed with cancer - all beginning that difficult journey in treatment; one for the second time. The cancer door has been opened again. The cold, frigid air chilling me to the bones.

Maybe someday soon, the Spring warmth will entice me onto the roads again. Mother Nature will once again beckon me with her promise of growth and renewal. "Come" she'll say, "Let me soothe your hurt." But for now, I just want to hunker down against this icy blast...trying to keep my heart and soul from freezing up, and wondering "Am I a runner?"

I'm tired and I want it to stop

In 2006, my brother was diagnosed with Stage IV colon cancer. He fought for a year before the beast won. It was an awful year. The stress of waiting for test results. The highs when treatment was working. The lows when treatment stopped working. The fear of the unknown - What's next? What's left to try? Can we win? The nightmares, the cold sweats, the panic. One would believe that once you lose the battle, taking the one you love, that cancer moves on. But cancer truly sucks. Once it invades your life, it doesn't ever let go. You're changed by it. It becomes part of your subconscious, ready to jump to your conscious thoughts at any second. The pain courses through your veins, lying in wait to seize up your heart. Every time you hear of someone with a cancer diagnosis, your feel for them and their families. You know the fight against the beast is difficult, tiring, painful, and it now has more people in its clutches. Your heart breaks. Cancer chips another little piece of your heart. It leaves another wound.

I want it to stop hurting the people I know and love. I want it to go away. I'm tired and I want it to stop.

Disney Marathon Weekend

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The Disney Marathon

1210 Days missing my brother.
181 Marathon training days.
74 Marathon training runs.
462.96 Training miles.
5 hours, 51 minutes, 17 seconds Time to run/jog/walk 26.2 miles.
$3,428.90 Money this effort raised for C3: Colorectal Cancer Coalition.
82 Generous souls who made a donation in Jimmy's memory and supported each and every step I took over that 26.2 miles.
17 Amazing people who made the trip to Disney World to wear "Remembering Jim" t-shirts.

It's better than cancer...

We had a house-warming party this weekend. I was tempted to call it a "nosy-neighbor" party, as it started out as a time for our wonderful Lane neighbors to see the house that enticed us away from them, and has given my husband the lowest stress level he's had in ten years. But then Mark invited his co-workers and I thought they might be offended being called nosy, so it just became an Open House.

One of Mark's friends stopped by several hours before the start of the party to visit. This gentleman is a cancer-lottery-winner - just hitting his 5-year NED. His odds of beating his cancer were slim. He went through hell with his treatments. As Mark used to tell me of his friend's time in the hospital, it reminded me of Lance Armstrong's odds and struggle. It was long and arduous. I'm always both happy and sad when someone hits the cancer NED jackpot. It's so difficult to do with many cancers, that you are thrilled when someone beats back the beast. But at the same time, it makes me terribly sad that Jim wasn't so lucky. Mark's friend still struggles with various ailments, and he was sharing with us that he had limited motion in his knee. You can see it pains him and, despite his best efforts, is a hindrance to what he wants to do. At the end of our conversation, he summed up "But it's better than cancer." Yes indeed.

I used to have aches and pains and think "I made it through childbirth. This is nothing." Now my measuring stick is cancer. Nothing that happens to me is as bad as Jim's cancer. No fear I have comes anywhere close to the fear of dying and leaving your spouse and small children alone. No pain I have running is anywhere close to the pain Jim struggled with during treatment and then palliative care. My yardstick these days is much longer than 36 inches.

I am truly thankful for what I have in life. And all the shit that inevitably comes our way day-to-day? Mark's friend said it best "It's better than cancer."

Everyday

I bought myself the keychain shown in this photo:

Not because I need reminding that I miss Jim everyday, but to remind others that I do. I know that the reminder makes people uncomfortable. People who haven't ever had a loss like this want a Hollywood movie ending. The hole left in our lives by Jim's death doesn't ever get any smaller, and I suspect this is very uncomfortable for them. It makes them fearful, impatient, perplexed. There must be something wrong with "us" - because if that ever happened to them, they can't imagine grieving for "so long." But those who've lost...they understand. They know it never goes away. The grief becomes a part of your being. It's there when you wake up in the morning. It pops from your heart into your head throughout the day. It lies down to sleep with you at night. You might not be crying all the time and you might be able to talk about the one you lost without that lump in your throat, but the "missing" is always there.

I bought my parents each a similar keychain. They say "Everyday I miss my son." Kirsten got one that says "Everyday I miss my uncle." I wanted them to know that I know it's there with them everyday. Jim's death changed us all - forever. It won't ever be the same. I understand and I love them.

Small but mighty

Most often my Judester blog posts are about how sad I am and how much I still miss my brother. Mainly because it helps my mental state to get those feelings out. Today though, I want to share something good about my life. I want to talk about Melissa. Regular readers of The Judester might remember Melissa as my original "I won't be fat and forty" walking, then jogging, partner. But over past few the years, she's become so much more than that.

In 2005, Melissa and I set out to lose some weight and get healthy. Despite an open invitation to all the middle age women in the neighborhood, Melissa was the only one willing to brave the 'hood's winter winds with me. We walked and ran together for over a year. Then Jim was diagnosed with cancer and my running became sporadic. Melissa didn't mind sporadic, and she was always there to head out with me during the year Jim was ill to "get the cobwebs out" and relieve some stress. I really needed our talks. Then Jim died and my sporadic running became non-existent. After many months of inactivity, Spring sprung and I knew I needed to get out there again. I was sad and unhealthy. Melissa was there to go with me. But something was different with me this time. I was driven with some crazy ideas - like I wanted to run a half-marathon; I wanted to run a marathon; I wanted to push myself farther and not just for the T-shirts this time around. That really wasn't Melissa's thing, but she didn't abandon me. Instead, she offered up her husband who had just taken up running! I believe her general sentiment was "Here - he's got just as crazy running ideas as you do! Have fun with that."

And so off Russell and I went in search of the best middle-age, newbie running experiences - training, gear, races, you name it. Now, here I'd like to pause and say Melissa is one smart cookie. She continued to run. She'd go with us when it suited her, but she's a solo runner. In the early years, she would constantly shoo me, saying "Okay Judith, you need to stop talking now and leave me alone to run." I suspect Russell gabbed at her just like I did when they ran together. He also had the same crazy running ideas I did about the best training plan, the best gear, etc... So by foisting him off on me, she took the heat off of her at home. She could continue to run casually and when he would talk to her about pushing farther, she'd say "Oh go take those crazy ideas to Judith!"

The thing about hanging around crazy people is it's contagious. This Sunday, Melissa will join Russ and me to run her first half-marathon. She's going to kick ass. I'm so excited for her. She bought herself a running necklace that has two charms on it - one says "Believe." The other says "13.1." She bought one for me too. Mine says "Small but mighty."

It is perfect and means more to me than just running. I recently wrote how the month of May seemed too big for just me. I'm now wearing my necklace to remind myself that I may feel small, but I am mighty. I was smaller than Jim in stature, but I was his big sister. I couldn't cure his cancer, but my small shoulders helped carry some of his burden during his illness. I was mighty in heart and love. The month of May still seems too big for just me, but I although I might not be able to fill the space on my own, I'm mighty enough to handle the emptiness. So with much love, I say "Thank you" to my friend Melissa.

The month of May

Well, here we are at the beginning of April and my dread of the month of May has already begun. I absolutely loved May as a kid. We ended April with Dad and Grandma's birthday on the 30th (that's her in the picture). Then it was my turn on May 14th. My cousin Susan had her birthday on the 20th, and Jimmy closed out the month with his birthday on the 28th. It was a fantastic month of birthday cakes and presents. Jimmy's birthday, being at the end of the month, usually involved a barbecue outside and summer time presents. I remember the year he turned 3, he got one of those plastic pools with a little slide. They put a little water in it so Jimmy could reach over the side and play. I, being the big sister, wanted to use the slide, but it was too cold to actually be in a bathing suit and get in the water. So against mom's wishes, up and down the slide I went, carefully standing up at the bottom of the slide, making sure I didn't get wet and incur mom's wrath. Yeah, that didn't work out so well and I incurred her wrath. He also got a red wagon that year. It was bigger than mine and my cousin Susan pulled him around the yard in it. I was very jealous. Funny the things you remember.

Jimmy and I shared May. It was ours. I got the first half, he got the second. I don't like having the entire month to myself. May feels empty now - too big for just me. Without Jim to close out the month, all the other dates that made May such a big deal seem small and lonely. I don't want to celebrate my birthday anymore as it reminds me that we won't be celebrating Jim's. I want my birthday to pass quickly and silently by.

Cancer wiped away my ability to be rational and reasoned

Mark's been having a bit of back pain the past month or so. Can't get comfortable in any position. But it came and went, and was gone more than it was there, so he tried to bear it. Nagging wife said "You know, this really bothers you. You should go see your doctor." Well, he didn't and he stopped complaining, so I thought "Must've gone away."

Yesterday, I got the phone call "Hi. I've got blood in my urine. I'm getting a bite to eat and then heading for a CT scan." He got to blood in my urine and my head screamed CANCER CANCER CANCER. He continued on..."They think it's a kidney stone." My head continued to scream CANCER CANCER CANCER. Then I started arguing with myself. He's young, of course they think it's a kidney stone. CANCER CANCER CANCER. It's just a kidney stone - stop being ridiculous. CANCER CANCER CANCER. This went on until they called to say it was a kidney stone. At which point, Mark fessed up that his head was whispering CANCER CANCER CANCER at him too.

Cancer did that to us. It took away our ability for reason because it seems to defy reason. It took away our willingness to go with a likely scenario because it's so random and unexpected. It still paralyzes our hearts with fear. It wasn't cancer this time, but I'm unable to stop wondering "When and where will the beast strike next?" Cancer truly sucks.

Bravery

What exactly is bravery? The dictionary tells me that it's courage in the face of danger, difficulty, or pain. But I think the definition needs to go a bit farther than that. I'm willing to bet that most of us are brave in the sense that we'd run in a burning building to save our kid. I'm even brave enough to offer to undergo a very painful surgery to give my sibling a portion of my liver. All very brave, spectacular, things...but I think there's more...an every day bravery. The kind of bravery that pushes you out of your comfort zone; has you seek out new experiences. I don't think the Marventano clan has that. We're a very "in-our-comfort-zone, play-it-safe" kind of crew. I believe that's why Jim married Kate. Kate is one of the most "every-day" brave people I've met. From what I saw, Jim gave Kate a comfort zone and Kate took Jim out of his.

When the end was in sight, Jim and Kate had to discuss some difficult topics. One of them, which she put on her blog, was the issue of marrying again. Jim said he probably wouldn't marry again if the positions were reversed. I think probably what Jim was saying was that he wouldn't seek to go outside his comfort zone to date and marry again. I've watched Kate begin to date again, and I have to say that it is a true act of bravery. I can only imagine the pain and difficulty of that act. She didn't stop loving her husband, but yet she is trying to forge a relationship with another. I'm not sure I could attempt it. I don't know if I'm that brave.

Which leads me to a question I've been asking myself lately - "Am I making my children comfort-zone people?" Mark desperately wants some land. We both would love to move out of NYS. And yet, I'm unwilling to move my kids out of their school district and away from their friends. Jim and I went to the same school district for all but my Kindergarten year. We both have lifelong friends from our school years. Everyone I know who moved around a lot as a kid, tells me they hated it. They hated being the new kid and don't have those friendships from youth. But yet, I believe that's what makes them have that "everyday bravery" that I don't have. I both admire and fear that bravery. I'm just pretty sure I don't have it.

Off I go into 2010

So here I am at the beginning of another year. I ran 900.3 miles in 2009. I walked 130.9 miles. (I'm a gadget gal and love my Garmin GPS watch.) In energy expenditure that's about 103,000 calories...what I'd need to lose 30 pounds. Yet, I'm 4 pounds heavier than the beginning of last year. Hmmmm...I guess I haven't done so well avoiding emotional eating. So I decided that in 2010, I'll keep a health journal. I started writing on the first. I've decided to record what I eat, the exercise I do, and how I feel - physically & emotionally. The next morning, I'll read the previous day's entries and give myself kudos for good choices and figure out why I made bad ones. Then I'll move forward with my day, trying to do better.

I started 2010 with a 7.5 mile race in Mendon Ponds Park. A hilly course that my running partner Russ and I pushed to do at a 10:30 pace. Good choice. I made pretty good food choices too. We celebrate Christmas with Mark's sisters. I took a small plate at dinner, had seconds of salad instead of lasagna. Again good choices. I also had four glasses of wine. FOUR glasses. Upon reflection, that seems a little excessive and more than I remember others drinking. So why did I do it? Why did I drink four glasses of wine? Because when I'm with Mark and his sisters I get sad. I miss Jim. I drank to stay in the game so to speak. While I had a glass of wine in my hand, I could be involved and not curl up on the end of the couch feeling sorry for myself. I'm not sure if that was a good choice, a bad choice, or just a choice.

Christmas just sucked. I hated that Jim wasn't there with Kate and the kids. That they all woke up Christmas morning without him. He didn't get to sit with Kate on the couch and watch the kids open their gifts from Santa. Kate didn't get to share their excitement with him, and Rach & Jake weren't able to run to him and show him what they'd just opened. It bugs me every day that he's not there to walk Rachel to school; not there to help build a race track for Jake's matchbox cars. But I have to learn how to not eat my way through the sadness, and that's what I'll try to learn this year.

Christmas 2006

Christmas 2006...Jim's last Christmas. He doesn't look sick at all, does he? He'd had surgery in September, and had gone through some of his first-line chemotherapy treatments. The folks at the Vince Lombardi Cancer Center had arranged his treatments so Christmas week was his "off" week. He felt pretty good. We were all really hopeful that our Jim would be the one to beat the beast. Somebody has to be in the 10%, right? Why not Jim? Dad took this photo of him while he was on the phone with me Christmas morning. It's my third Christmas morning minus the call or having him here with us. I miss him. Cancer just sucks.

A little grey

Scattered about my head are quite a few more grey hairs than I used to have. My hairdresser says it's time for a color. I've colored or highlighted my hair for fun for a lot of years now. I come from a long line of Swayne color-ers, and until Jimmy died, I really didn't have any more of a problem with putting color in my hair than I did putting on a blue sweater. I even colored my hair purple once - not like bright purple - but my hair had a definite strong purple tint to it. Unfortunately, I took a three-year-old Kirsten with me when I had it done and she announced it to EVERYONE we met for about a month - "MY MOM COLORED HER HAIR PURPLE!" But now I look at the grey in the mirror and I think "Boy, I've earned those." My own badge of courage. In an odd way, I find comfort in seeing the grey hairs. In my own warped view, I think "Oh good, I'm that much closer to seeing Jim again." I'm not looking to rush it or anything, but I don't mind getting older. I don't mind seeing it. In the end, I get to see Jimmy again and I'm looking forward to that. The greys are a daily reminder that life moves on. Some people want to stop the passage of time. I'm enjoying and thankful for every day I have here with those I love, but I also don't mind the days going by.

And now for a little funny story. I was sitting at the table with Mom after Sunday dinner. We were talking about how much we missed Jimmy and how difficult it is to get motivated for Christmas. So she says "I dreamed about Jimmy and my mother last night. I went to heaven and I saw them together." I said "Really? Last night? Because I dreamed about Jimmy and Grandma last night too. Only I didn't go to heaven. We were all at Grandma's house." Without missing a beat, she smiles and teases me (just like Jimmy would've done) "That's because they don't let atheists in heaven." Then she laughed at her joke, just like Jimmy would've done. It made me smile and laugh too.

The grieving process?

I'm an instructional designer. In instructional design, we have a type of content called a process. It's defined as "A flow of events that describes how something works rather than how to do something. It usually cannot be done by one person—many persons or organizations are involved. A process can be mechanical, business, or scientific and has either stages, phases, or cycles." Hmmmmm...that sure doesn't seem to apply here. Grief is quite solitary. There isn't a flow. It doesn't move nicely from one stage to another. It seems to jump around depending on the day. For example, shock and denial are the first stages described in many books on grief. I can tell you that two years after my brother's death, I'm often so horrified by the mere thought of it that I become Scarlet O'Hara "I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow." Shock and denial.

Life moves on without him now, whether I think about the consequences of his death today or not.

My truck wouldn't start the other day. I called Mark, who suspected what was wrong with it and had it towed in to be repaired. I drove Kirsten's car for about 30 minutes and then that wouldn't start either. Mark came home and fixed it. Kirsten drove to a friend's house late at night for a sleepover, but didn't call to tell us that she'd arrived like we asked. Mark got up out of bed and drove the route to the friend's house to make sure a deer didn't put her and the BMW in a ditch.

Kate ordered bed rails to change Jake's crib into a bed. She disassembled the crib and reassembled it into a bed. That's something Jim would've done. She was fully capable of doing it, and she did, but I'm sure she was wishing Jim was there to do it instead.

I sometimes complain about Mark and what he does or doesn't do, but I realize that I'm terribly blessed to have him around--to lighten my load and to watch my back. Jim isn't there to do that for Kate and that makes me really sad. I hope someday, Kate's heart heals enough to share her life with someone else if she wants. Sometimes the journey's just easier when we walk it with another person.

Put one foot in front of the other

I started walking with my neighbor, Melissa, the winter before my 40th birthday. By the time my 40th birthday arrived in May, we had made it through the "Couch to 5K" running program. An exceptional accomplishment looking back at how we use to tick off the seconds in the run part of the run X minutes/walk Y minutes program. I'm 44 and 5 months now, and except for six months or so around Jim's final days with us, I've been running fairly consistently all that time. That's 53 months of consistent effort, trying to create a new life habit. And yet some days when I hit the pavement, it's all I can do to put one foot in front of the other and get through the run. From start to finish, the lethargy never lets up, I never "get my legs" during the run, I finish as miserable as I started. And I'll let you in on a little secret - after 53 months, it is a rare occurrence when I wake up and think "Oh boy, I have a run today!" Most days are a variation of "Oh crap, I have to run today." But then I get out there and it feels good, I end my run feeling glad I went, and most of the time very happy I'm done. It helps to have a goal and a partner. I just finished the Rochester Half Marathon and trained with my neighbor Russ, both the goal and my partner helped me get in those shoes and out the door. But then race day goes by and you still have to put one foot in front of the other, get out there and continue running.


I've come to realize that living without my brother is another life habit I'm trying to create. Like running, I'd prefer not to have to do it, but I really have no other choice. There are days I wake up and think "I just can't do this. I can't live my life another 30 or 40 years without him." But I have to. So on those days, I concentrate on just getting through that one day, just like I get through those bad runs. I remember that there are people out there running the same race I am, and they understand the effort. Most days are like my runs - a mix of sadness missing him, but also full of my daily life. I push through the sadness and concentrate on the living. I have events that I look forward to, which relieves some of the pressure, but then they go by and I still have to live without Jim. Sometimes I think "This should be getting easier." But then I remember my running - some days it just plain sucks, but as long as I don't quit, I'll be just fine.

Home Depot, Toilet Seats, and Jim

Today is September 17th. Two years have passed since Jim died. Today's not the magic day. The day when I finally wake up and missing Jim's not the first thing I think of. The day when there aren't a dozen things throughout the day that remind me that he's gone.

So what does this have to do with Home Depot and toilet seats? Yesterday, I made the mistake of going to Home Depot to pick up a new toilet seat for the kids' bathroom. Home Depot was on my way home from a rare appearance at my company's office, so I stopped out of convenience. I hate going in those places - everywhere I turn, I see reminders of Jim. He was more than handy. Christmases were filled with gifts from Home Depot for Jim. I walk around the store with a lump in my throat every time I have to go in there. Unfortunately, toilet seats are in the bath section. The bath section is dominated by Kohler products. Jim worked for International Paper, but was on permanent assignment to Kohler. He was proud of the work he did. IP and Kohler were the best during Jim's illness. I won't buy any products other than Kohler because of that. So there I am in the back of the store, staring at Kohler toilet seats, crying. Obviously, yesterday wasn't the day either.

My mother-in-law passed away earlier this year. Mark and his sisters are in the process of going through the house. There seem to be three piles - keep, sell, toss. It's a painstaking process, but eventually all the physical pieces of each of our lives will be put in one of these piles by those left-behind. Kate had to do that for Jim. It's a disconcerting feeling to walk into a house where a person lived and not see the physical objects of their daily life about. Once someone picks up the shoes of the deceased and puts them in one of the three piles, the person isn't there to leave them by the door anymore. No more coats thrown over the chair, car keys on the window sill, dirty coffee cup by the side of the sink. Eventually, everything is picked up, put away, or tossed. The physical presence of their lives slowly fading away.

I don't have any physical pieces of Jim's life. For a while that bothered me. I mistakenly believed that I needed something physical to hold onto or I'd lose Jim. Over the past two years, I've come to realize that isn't correct. Each of us has different memories of Jim. Objects in my own life bring those memories to mind readily, without the need for a physical object that he actually touched and owned. Yesterday, I had a very strong reaction to toilet seats, yet am fairly certain I wouldn't want Jim's! The important part of Jim's life wasn't the objects, but the memories about Jim interacting with those objects that we carry forward. The objects are flat, while the memories are sharp.

I caught up with an old friend who lost her brother our freshman year in college. She told me that the intense pain never goes away. Eventually it just doesn't consume you. I'm not there yet, but that's okay - she mentioned wishing 10 years would go by in a blink of an eye to get her past the consuming pain. I told Mom on Sunday that I'd much rather have this than be standing there saying "He was a real asshole. I'm glad he's gone." It's a testament to my brother's life that so many people carry his death as a painful loss; that there are so many good memories, and today people other than his own family are remembering what a wonderful person he was.