Dear Readers,
We haven't talked much about grief, have we? I think we should, because cancer causes a lot of grief — and plucks a lot of special people from our midst, leaving us with craters in our hearts where those wonderful people had once been.
Tell you what. If you're nowhere near losing anybody to cancer, skip this chapter of “Carol and Mike's Place.” With all the new medicines and treatments becoming available, you may not need any tips on handling grief, and I hope you don't. But if you do, by all means, do hang in.
I've been grieving for well over two years, which, I think, gives me a credential, of sorts, to expound on grief and how to cope with it. For one thing, it seems to go on forever. But that should not come as any surprise. When you take a real hit, you never forget.
When my wife was taken from me by small-cell lung cancer in late 2014, I had the good sense to cling to her side of the family for all the fellowship I could get. This brings me to my first piece of advice. If you should lose someone you love to cancer, don't lock yourself away to mourn on your own. It is important to your mental health to continue to celebrate life.
Carol's people—primarily, her sister-in-law, nephew, and nieces—were amazing support for me when my loss was new and sharp-edged. We started sharing “Carol stories” right away, and the family organized and hosted a fabulous memorial for Carol. It was an unforgettable send-off for the woman who had totally absorbed me for half a century.
Carol was an original. So, there are plenty of “Carol stories”. I am still hearing new ones, and I treasure them all. Thus, my second tip. Hang on to all your memories of that special someone. That person altered your life, and helped make you who you are today. It makes no sense to “be strong” and shut that person out of your mind. Good grief. Knowing and loving that person made you a better person. And if your reminiscing brings tears, that's a good thing, too. Getting a little weepy now and then (as I do) just means you're a human being.
I got lucky shortly after Carol died. I was asked to continue on as a caregiver, this time to a younger sister in another state. I haven't had a dull moment since. One day of driving, and I was making myself useful again. I had purpose. It's been wonderful therapy for me, from day one. Spinning off that is my third tip about coping with death: stay involved in life. Volunteer. Join a club. Teach someone how to read. Learn how to play a musical instrument. In short, go on living — in all the ways the person you lost would applaud you for.
My last bit of advice — tip number 4 — has to do with old-time religion: If you've got it, hang onto it. It's really comforting to count on being reunited someday with the family and friends you've lost. I firmly believe that I will find Carol again, even though she was mad at the Catholic Church when she died, because of the Vatican's poor handling of many priests' pedophilia. To further complicate matters, I quit going to Mass when I was 18, because I had started college by then and was inclined to think I knew everything.
Atheists and agnostics use their free will to argue that when we die, the lights go out and we are no more. Gad. What a bleak outlook. How do they get out of bed in the morning? Better put, why do they get out of bed in the morning? (What's the point, if nothing you do in life counts?)
Look, I put a lot of time and energy into my life, loved a lot of people, established warm relationships, lived and let live, followed all kinds of rules, and almost always behaved so that people would say nice things about me at my funeral. To me, all this is a matter of faith. Not a faith you can put a name on, but it makes me assume that all God-fearing mortals will end up in Heaven to match notes on their lives, thank God for having made their lives so rich and rewarding — or, if such is the case, have Him explain why their lives have been so difficult. (He will definitely have to tell us why some people get all the breaks and some people get little to none. I have been pondering that one for a long time.)
Yes, I'm a religious primitive, and I can live — and die — with that.
A bit more about luck. Mine has been phenomenal. I met a young woman in 1958 who would eventually refine me and define me. I feel sorry for every man who didn't find such a force to reckon with. How empty my life would have been without the girl who had me figured out before she met me. (I think I've mentioned elsewhere in this blog that Carol was psychic.)
That girl was a real piece of work. At age 4, when her mom was scolding her for one of the many naughty things she had said or done, she drew herself up to her full height (maybe 2 feet tall) and snapped, “I don't like your attitude!” She put up with authority but didn't take it too seriously. Carol finessed school, getting B's without much effort. She loved to play. Actually had a “Recreation” major at Michigan State University, and also spent a lot of time in the college dorm playing canasta (never losing a game — she had a mind like a steel trap). In short, she was so into recreation that she never got around to graduating. When I met her at Camp High Sierra in 1958, she had traveled with her parents to almost every state in the Union and had visited the Grand Canyon several times. Her folks had spoiled her, but she had good instincts. I was singularly blessed that one of them led her to me.
I've had an embarrassment of riches. I was destined to have extraordinarily good fortune, in great company. I've been surrounded by wonderful people, including the parents I got, the siblings I grew up with, and the beautiful girl I chased until she caught me and put me on a course of serious behavior modification for the next half century. I think all this talk about pure dumb luck calls for one last tip about coping with loss:
Be grateful to God for having known and loved the people who added so much zest to your life before they left it.
Flash. A sudden epiphany. I've just figured out my place in the universe. It's a small place on E. Eldorado St. in Appleton, Wisc., where I am looking after my kid sister and myself as we grow old together, possibly outliving her funky dawg, and trusting in our Maker to take us home when we breathe our last. Not exactly your cosmic overview, but it sure works for me.
—Michael E. Hearons
