Spring Musings of an Experienced Widow

I don't write that much about grief anymore. Maybe that's natural, as it's been 7 and a half long years since Ken died. The little kids I was left to raise alone are teenagers now. Really good teenagers. My son is taller than me and moving up to high school and my daughter will be a senior in high school next year. Life has gone on down the road and the time when I couldn't even imagine how I could possibly ever be happy again is firmly rooted in the past.

Still, there are little prompts to grief from time to time, only now they are like little invisible, internal winces. Springtime, for one. Ken died in January and that year in 2006 when the warm air started enveloping Chicago and people were giddy with springtime happiness, and everything was turning green, I was turning green with envy at everyone who had their simple happiness, like an intact family on a warm spring day. For me, spring had become cruel and mean. I felt alone, not giddy. So when spring comes around, I remember that sadness and I feel some of it, wincingly.

The pivotal events in our (Ken's and my) children's lives (and for many us raising kids, so many of their pivotal events are ours as well) are just mine. I can't look over at Ken knowingly or squeeze his hand with our shared pride. I guess I'm used to that. I've been a single parent for a long time. Some of those big events are on the horizon now. Soon there will be graduations, college decisions, and big next steps for children who have left and are leaving childhood. I would never have envisioned myself as a single parent, but I am, and I'm proud of myself for managing it and for the closeness I share with my children. We did not let death tarnish our family life.

I no longer believe in a sorrow-free life.

I no longer take for granted times that are smooth. When everyone is healthy in body, mind and spirit, life is at its best. And I notice that and I appreciate that. 

And now, when spring comes along and I feel that little wince, I also feel so grateful to see and feel another spring. It is a happy, giddy time here in northern climes and I am in it and I feel the warmth and I welcome the new life from wherever it pops. 

 

Fighting Cancer?

I've been volunteering for a while at Willow House, a not-for-profit organization in the Chicago area where families who have experienced a loss can get the support they need to heal. After a support group earlier this month, the volunteers gathered to share their experiences of the evening. Ruth, a Willow House staffer,  mentioned something that really stayed with me. She said that cancer is the only illness where the language of war is used, as in "fighting" cancer or "battling" cancer.

Today, I heard those fighting words once more, as it was reported that Chicago's beloved film critic Roger Ebert was said to be battling cancer again. I'm sorry to hear that Ebert has to deal with cancer once again, and I'm also sorry that he and every other person who gets cancer is seen as some kind of noble warrior off to slay the cancer dragon.

You have heart disease. You suffer from a stroke. You get MS or diabetes or pneumonia. But you always have to wage a war with cancer.

The problem with this language is what it means when you "win" or "lose" the battle. Did you lose because you didn't fight hard enough? Did you win because you were strong or crafty or highly strategic as you waged your battle? In losing, did you not want victory enough...or were you too weak to win...or did you choose the wrong tactics?

Cancer is not an illness that only happens to warriors. When you get cancer, you don't have to always be brave and courageous like David flinging rocks at Goliath. A cancer diagnosis is not synonymous with joining the armed forces.

Cancer is sometimes a very scary illness and sometimes just a temporary setback and sometimes it's not much trouble at all. Sometimes cancer takes away your husband or wife or mother or father or sibling, or child. Sometimes it takes you. Sometimes, you get it and you treat it and it never comes back again. No big deal.

Cancer isn't a war to be won. Cancer is a disease. And if you get it, you get it like a cold or the flu or you have it like a broken arm or arthritis or lupus. It can be simple or it can be complicated. But you don't have to arm yourself and put on a uniform like a super-hero when you are diagnosed with cancer. You need a good doctor and loving and supportive friends, family members, and colleagues.

People with cancer may not be especially brave or especially strong. People with cancer are simply people with a health problem. They are your family members, your friends and your neighbors. Their cancer might be so minimal that it hardly effects their day-to-day lives or they might feel depressed, or in pain, or exhausted and anxious. So, let's not give those who have cancer the extra burden of also having to go to war, OK? Let's give peace a chance when it comes to this war-hungry language of cancer.