My son’s oldest friend lost his mother to breast cancer last month. One more thing for two fourteen year-old boys to share in common.
And really, after all this time, events like these shouldn’t amaze and appall me. But they do.
Because Lynn had a full life of living and loving ahead of her.
William met Harry when they were only one. My nanny knew Lynn’s nanny, and they used to meet up regularly when the kids were very small. I didn’t meet Lynn then, but I got to know little Harry pretty well.
Eventually, our nannies moved on, and we lost touch, for a while.
A few years later, we moved to the same town, and by chance seven-year old William and Harry found themselves in the same class at the same school. Finally, we met Lynn and her husband Hugh, and in the seven years since then, we all became the best of friends.
It must have been that year when Lynn was diagnosed with breast cancer.
Through the years since, Lynn endured a range of treatments and therapies. Increasingly, she knew that time was precious, and she threw herself even more into the life of her only son.
Setbacks came and went. Bad news was an unwelcome visitor to their door, but it called frequently. And yet, in between, there were quiet times. Seasons of half-formed hope, lingering within the slowly passing weeks and months.
Until they told her it was terminal.
She knew my story. ‘How long did Jenny have before she died?’ she asked me, one sunny autumn afternoon outside the gate, when no one else was listening.
‘Fifteen months from diagnosis,’ I said, not wanting to tell her, but knowing that I had to, all the same. ‘But she was younger, and the hospitals know more about cancer every year. You’ll have much more time that that,’ I told her.
Desperately wanting it to be true, whilst breaking up inside.
Lynn had three years, although she hoped it would be more, and we all feared it might be less. She lived better times, as well. A miraculous new drug let her walk again without pain, even when the cancer had spread inside her bones.
Precious memories were laid down with Harry, as she fought to live a normal life, and succeeded in every material degree.
Lynn’s husband Hugh and I got to know each other better then. Lynn was determined that we should, recognising that I might talk about her present and his future in a way that few others could.
Time drifted on, and perhaps I grew accustomed to the dark shadow hanging over Hugh and Lynn. We lead a busy life, and after our boys went to different schools again, I’m sad that sometimes we wouldn’t see them for a month or two.
This year, Lynn’s health began to slide. We met up more often. On more than one occasion, when I returned from days spent with my ailing father-in-law, Hugh and I stared into the depths of a beer glass as the summer slipped away.
A month ago, Lynn and Hugh came to our house for dinner. Lynn was in a bad way that night. She couldn’t eat, and didn’t feel much like talking either, but she was determined that they should go out for once, for Hugh.
I helped her down the steps to the car, but as they left she didn’t say goodbye. Lynn never left the house again. She died just one week later.
The day of the funeral was fantastic. After a simple cremation ceremony, our local church was filled for Lynn’s memorial service. Four hundred and fifty people came from far and wide, from all the times within her life. I’m sure it lifted Hugh, and Harry, to affirm how widely Lynn was loved.
Three weeks ago.
This November has been a dark and rainy season, here in England. It’s not a good time to lose a wife, or a mother. But then there never is.
Amidst all this, I’ve seen that transition taking place. Lynn’s journey ending, and Hugh’s, and Harry’s, just starting to begin.
And you see, I know this tale so well. I know exactly where it comes from, and where it leads, and all the myriad of many by-ways and dark alleys in between.
I wish it wouldn’t happen. When it does, I have to ask — ‘Just what’s the point? Why write about this stuff?’ Because, sadly, terribly — I can’t change this.
The truth is that it goes on. It happened before, and it will do so once again.
Lives will be ripped apart by loss. Beautiful, intelligent, thoughtful, loving young people will be torn from where they’re needed. And husbands, wives, children, parents — even the odd friend as well — will be left to pick up the pieces.
And yes, perhaps, by now, with my experience and these few hard-won insights and understanding that I’ve gained, you’d think that I could deal with that.
For the most part, I can. But not always. Because despite the endless, easy encouragement that I can give you, and the precious knowledge that one day, the worst will pass — underneath all that I suffer, too.
Yet so what if I lost three weeks from here? That’s nothing at all, because I’m alive and Lynn lost thirty years of life. And Hugh, and Harry? What about them? How much have they lost, and how much more will they lose ahead?
I don’t know the answer. And I don’t know why I even try to ask.
There always will be tales like this, and people who suffer through them. Perhaps nothing will ever change that. I can’t help much, and neither can you. And yet…
The truth is that this goes on.
And whatever we can do to help, we really have to do it.
12 responses so far ↓
shadowlands1501 // 27 November, 2009 at 06:11 |
“Just what’s the point? Why write about this stuff?’”
There are more that need to know what Lynn knew. She knew that you were willing to share your loss of a wife and mother and she entrusted Hugh and Harry to your words of wisdom as to what to expect and how to begin living again.
What a wonderful gift of comfort to give to a dying friend.
Yes, life goes on. It just doesn’t feel like it for a while. It is in the “while” that your words give much needed insight into the unknown life that is before them.
Thanks, Roads
From a cold Indiana Thanksgiving night.
Roads // 27 November, 2009 at 09:07 |
Thank you, Shadowlands. It’s a familiar story as it unfolds now, as I’m sure you’ll also appreciate, but the fact is that it cracks me up every time.
Sadly there wasn’t all that much that I could do for Lynn, except to be a friend and to say I understood, whilst doing my best to hide my own sorrow and the terrible, gut-wrenching foreboding that I felt.
There’s more that I can do for Hugh and Harry. This is the opportunity, perhaps, to do exactly what I preach. Now there’s a challenge, really.
Wishing you a warm and comforting Thanksgiving. We don’t celebrate that holiday here, but maybe we more than make up for it in our excesses of turkey and family celebrations over a longer Christmas holiday instead.
Enjoy your Thanksgiving, as best you can. And thanks again for writing.
Author // 27 November, 2009 at 12:12 |
I am so sorry. I am sorry for the loss of Lynn, and for the fact that you are so right: death from cancer does go on.
As co-moderator of a world-wide Chondrosarcoma group ~ I am constantly faced with the news that another much loved and brave member of the group has lost their battle against cancer. Of course many survive too ~ but it doesn’t lessen the pain of loss.
Cancer is as much a part of our lives as is birth and death. I just hope that one day a cure will be found and no one else will have to suffer the illness, or lose a loved one.
Cancer stinks.
Boo Mayhew // 27 November, 2009 at 16:19 |
Roads, you are a good friend. No, you are beyond a good friend … it hurts you to revisit all your old demons, yet you selflessly do so. I am glad you are “alright” was getting a bit worried
Boo xx
3SF // 27 November, 2009 at 19:57 |
The longer you were away from here, the more I feared something like this had happened. And to echo Boo, we did miss you.
That said, you were right where you needed to be during that time. You were there for your friends in a way no one else in their lives could have been. And I know you will continue to be.
And you were also where you needed to be internally as well. Death is a thief and cancer its willing accomplice.Moments that drag our raw emotion to the surface are necessary, even if they are completely painful and often arrive unannounced.
As for the question as to whether or not to write about it… well, I believe you and I continue to make that decision for similar reasons-to support others who are like us and those who could be one day.
Hang in there and (to use one of your phrases) spirits up.
anniegirl1138 // 27 November, 2009 at 20:28 |
Writing helps but sometimes it does feel like it’s the least important thing a person could do. I suppose because it doesn’t fix anything, and most people feel that unless they can fix “it”, everything else is pointless.
I am sorry for your loss.
Roads // 30 November, 2009 at 13:10 |
Jan
Thanks — you’re a brave one, and no mistake. How great that you put something back through your moderation of a chondrosarcoma group.
Far too many people are affected by cancer, whether directly or indirectly, and it’s clear that they need all the support that they can possibly find.
Roads // 30 November, 2009 at 13:14 |
Boo
Thank you again for your very kind thought. Fortunately there’s no need to worry about me — you make sure you look after Boo.
We met up with Hugh and Harry this weekend — just hanging out together, really. It’s a long haul ahead, I can see — and we all knew that already.
But just being there to listen is sometimes the most important thing of all.
Roads // 30 November, 2009 at 13:17 |
Hey there, Split (3SF) — thanks so much for your comment. Words have real currency when they come from those who understand them.
“Spirits up”. How marvellous to hear that phrase of mine cited back to me. It really made my Friday evening when I read it, so thank you.
Roads // 30 November, 2009 at 13:21 |
Annie
Thank you, too. I think you hit the nail on the head there, exactly.
Why write, when you can’t fix it?
That’s exactly the question I was exploring. But perhaps sometimes asking the questions openly is nearly as important as answering them. Because it’s only by identifying the issues that we can ever begin to address them.
Thanks again to all of you, and best wishes around the world, from London.
Dewdrop // 30 November, 2009 at 22:59 |
Roads,
I read your posting shortly after it went on line. I read it slowly. Shortly afterwards it took me a while to get to sleep as it was still going around in my head. I kept thinking about your posting and my experiences some years back whilst I was still too deep in my own grief.
We had a good family friend that we had known for years and she had been a godparent to one of our children. Both she and my wife had the misfortune to have mastectomies around the same time.
When my wife died I rang this friend to tell her about the funeral but unfortunately she was starting another session of chemo that same day and so would be unable to come. I kept in touch every few weeks.
This friend had finished another course of chemo and had been “declared clear” when it was my turn to disappear into hospital to have a cancer removed. When I came back home I phoned her to see how she was getting on and she dropped the bombshell that it had now returned in her brain… My friend slowly declined over the next few months until, just over a year after my wife died, this friend suffered a severe stroke and was confined to bed for several months until death released her from this state.
As Author noted “Cancer stinks”. No – it is worse than that!
A work colleague also suffered a re-occurrence of breast cancer whilst I had been in the hospital and died 18 months later…
And so it goes on.
Grief is the “car-crash” that occurs when love, flowing freely, comes to the end of the road and has nowhere else to go.
Roads // 1 December, 2009 at 09:11 |
Dewdrop
Thanks for writing once again, and I’m sorry for the loss you experienced. As you describe, losing a wife is bad enough, and when it comes to losing good friends, work colleagues, acquaintances — what more can we say?
I’m sure we all have our tales of loss like this — since cancer doesn’t discriminate. It weaves relentlessly through all our lives. I knew that long before Jenny died, and I know it even better now.
There’s a risk of reflected grief in times like this. You recount precisely how in the early days, a new loss can reawaken old pain.
It was the same for my late father-in-law, who lost a wife and then a daughter not many years apart. Sadly in the depths of grief I couldn’t make myself as selflessly sympathetic to his loss as I should have been.
At this distance and for me, I’m sure there is some reflected grief, naturally, but I recognise it and can deal with it. No — what I feel these days is a more desperately weary kind of resignation and helplessness. The certain, awful knowledge that death from cancer goes on, and the turmoil that it brings continues. Finally there’s almost nothing that you or I can do to stop them.
I know, more or less exactly, the awful burden that Hugh has had to bear, as you did, and I did. And I know the dark desperation that follows the brief euphoria of the days before the funeral. The awful realisation that after all this exhausting trauma, this is not the end but rather the beginning of another journey entirely, which in its way is just as hard again.
We can’t change these things, and we can do precious little to help. But by standing beside those who need our help and trying to do our level best to change attitudes to cancer, death and bereavement — those small efforts can be precious indeed in making just a little difference.
I know you share that view, and that resolve. Thank you again for writing. This fight goes on.