What I didn't see coming was...

The fact that I'd ever run out of things to talk about me. I love talking about me. I never ever run out of ways to talk about me. And yet, here I am. I'm done talking about me. I'm sick of hearing about me.

It's been just over five months since Jim passed away. Today I cleaned out his sock drawer. A nice woman at my church has agreed to make quilts for the kids out of Jim's clothes, and this week I chose a pattern. His clothes and personal possessions are still all where he left them. I'm still sleeping on my side of the bed. But I've started to think that even if I leave things the way they were, he's not going to come back. I've started to realize that it's time to make a change.

Things have sort of snowballed since the new year. No pun intended on the Wisconsin weather. I wanted to make a positive change for my kids, and I am doing that. I wanted to find ways to honor Jim's memory, and I am doing that. But I've also wanted things for me, and I'm working on those, too. I can't clearly remember the last time I wanted things just for me. (Well, yes I can - it was September 12, 2006 - the day before Jim was diagnosed and the last day that it got to be all about me. Since then I've been in withdrawal, but my frenetic pace has occasionally stilted my awareness level.)

Lately I've been feeling that I'm using the blog mostly to complain. And truthfully, that's just not where we are right now. I am actually doing pretty darn well. I am managing the day-to-day things that I didn't think I'd ever get control of. I am still w-a-y behind on so many things. And I've just let some things completely go - like my dining room table, which looks like a rat's nest. But I just keep the lights out in that room (good thing because there isn't a chandelier in there anymore - we moved it to the kitchen) and walk past it. Sometimes I add a few things to the pile, sometimes I take a few things away. I know I'll get to it eventually. When I put a priority on it.

Some days I feel like I'll never be able to let go of this last year. Some days I'm desperate to let it go. Most days I'm grateful for what I have, and grateful for what I had with Jim. Cancer never did beat us. It's true that Jim opted to stop his treatments, but that was his decision. Cancer didn't make that decision. Jim and I made it together. True, cancer got us down. It twisted and stomped on our families hearts. Cancer has stuck a piercing sword through multiple households in this scenario. But here's what cancer doesn't know: it still didn't win. We stuck to our guns. We had love, and a lot of it, right up until the moment Jim passed. We have love, and a lot of it, right now. Jim is still with us and always will be. Cancer is a puny disease that we will someday cure. Eventually we'll all be inoculated for cancer and it'll be a faded memory for future generations, as polio is for many of us. Jim is a giant. He will go on forever. There's no inoculation for love and caring like that. There's no cure for the good will and generosity that Jim gave to everyone around him - it's contagious, and it will go on - through all of us, through his family, through his kids. Cancer doesn't know that an entire community of people - of virtual strangers - bound together and lifted us up to support us over the course of more than a year, and continue to support us. Cancer doesn't know how many people learned from our experience and bettered their own lives - by getting their colonoscopy, by drawing up the will they've been meaning to do, by getting the life insurance they've been meaning to get, by kissing their spouse or kids with a grateful heart, by quitting smoking, by actually starting to live the lives they were blessed with rather than trudging through day-to-day.

All this being said, I thought I'd let you know that while I won't be taking the blog down immediately, I don't think I'm going to be writing much more. I will still write when the mood strikes me (which now that I said I won't be writing much will probably be every-other-day or something crazy like that), but February has been a good month. Some of the anger I've been feeling has dissolved. I rest in my heart knowing that we fought like crazy and although we didn't win the battle, we can still win the war. We did everything, went everywhere, and tried every avenue to keep Jim here. I can rest knowing that I remain active in the cancer community, and that if something I do helps even one family, I will have done the right thing. I know that Jim knows that I'm doing the best I can each day, and he can rest knowing that I've gained a lot of maturity and insight over the last year. And equating me with maturity or insight is something none of us saw coming, believe me!

When we got married at 22 and 25 years old, we certainly never dreamed what our marriage vows would actually mean. Some people thought we wouldn't make it because we married so young. In the beginning, even we wondered if we would make it. Thank heavens we took those vows to heart and did it right. We made it through richer or poorer, and we stuck together through sickness and health. But more than that: we loved each other. It wasn't a marriage where we lived side-by-side. We weren't roommates. We were best friends and husband and wife, and we were strong like that until he died. We're strong like that now. I'm still talking to him, giggling over things he said, crying when I miss him. I wouldn't have traded a moment of what we had for a more mediocre life. Even if that means going through cancer. He was worth it. We were worth it together.

This journey is a life-altering event that we never saw coming. You know, something like this always happens to someone else. I believe I stated that in one of my first blogs. Of course it doesn't happen in our blessed lives. But of course, it does. It did. It continues to. Even when Jim was diagnosed, they kept leading us closer and closer toward the cancer door, and we still didn't get it until they finally said "You have cancer." No one thinks it's going to happen to them. Our sense of immortality is grounded in a denial that is deep-seated from our childhoods. Shattering that immortality with the death of someone so magnificent changes everything for everyone around them.

I honestly thought that I'd keep writing for a year, possibly more. But I've been doing some serious grief work, and I recognize that I don't have the same intense need to express everything on the blog as I once did. It's that kind of change that lets me know that I'm tiring of talking about me. I have a very clear sense of mortality. I have vastly different goals for my family than I did on September 12, 2006. As someone who carries no secrets, the blog has been a tremendous outlet for me. (For the record, I can carry other people's secrets, I just don't have any myself.) My gratitude for our families that banded together and put in such love and overtime is overwhelming. Same goes to the many, many readers, people who wrote cards, made meals, watched our kids, fixed our house, took our dogs, lent us their apartments, paid for flights, supported us through treatments, attended Jim's memorial service and gave to his memorial fund. In the end, we had more than $10,000 in medical bills - even with great insurance, even with help from our families. The memorial fund has helped relieve some of that burden. It will also go to setting up a scholarship program through Jim's high school.

Thank you for walking this journey with Jim, me, and the kids. Thank you for being there for Jim when he needed it most, and for me when I did. Thank you for reading faithfully and commenting or sending me an email when a post spoke to you. Thank you for sharing every nuance of the last 17 months of our lives. Thank you for doing the best you can in your own families every day, and still having more to give to others. Your generosity is infinite and precious.