Courage Is . . .

Today I am celebrating John's life. I have a box of cards and photos, the folder I kept of his medical records and my notes through our cancer battle, and copies of e-mails received at the end of his life. I rediscovered this box a couple of nights ago after not seeing it for a year. I'd like to share some of those notes here today.

John was great about buying me cards and writing the most lovely notes to me. I wish now I had dated them. To set the stage for the first note I want to share, let me back up.

John and I lived together from August of 1988 to May of 1990. At that time, he chose to listen to the seductive words of another woman, who didn't really want him but didn't want me to have him. We parted company and I married, a couple of years later, Bob the Mormon with the son who threatened to shoot me. The day John heard Bob and I had separated, around Easter of 1995, he started calling me, sometimes four and five times a day. We went out for our birthdays a couple of months later (June 20th/June 22nd) and just fell back into our wonderful old life together. A couple of months later I received this card from him:

Lucky are we who know that destiny
is guided by the heart alone.
And lucky am I to have found you.

He signed it:
Across the years.
J

Inside was a long, handwritten note that included these words:
Dearest Jan --
Your resilience and astounding ability to overcome adversity, move on, and put your life (back) in order is testimony to both your faith in yourself and your considerable talents.

As one who has been a burden and a challenge . . . it's a bit painful to me to think back on my inability to recognize what we had, and where we could have been had my perception approached yours. But being that as it may, I have a total faith in you . . . .

He always got a kick out of my name being the same as the Susan Sarandon character in "Rocky Horror Picture Show," and he would pronounce it "CHAN-et" as I guess some character in the movie did.

I don't remember the reason for or date of the next card, but it believe it was after our marriage on March 16, 1996, but before his diagnosis in September of 1996.

Courage is . . .
Believing in yourself and fulfilling your potential.
Showing you care and giving unconditionally.
Doing what you want and trusting yourself to make the right decisions.
Sitting in the driver's seat and taking control of your life.
Making your own decisions and being honest with yourself and others.
Accepting changes and flowing with them.
Dealing with your problems and asking for help.
Offering your opinions and communicating your fears and doubts.
Accepting abundance and allowing yourself to succeed.
Trying again and doing new things.
Loving yourself and others unconditionally.

Inside the card, he wrote:
A FAIRLY GOOD DESCRIPTION OF JANET - -
And you get some pretty terrific marks in all 11 categories.
And over time.
J

Now, from my e-mails to friends and to my caregivers' support group:

June 24, 1998
John said to me this afternoon that he was very weak and ready to move. I wasn't sure what he meant, as communication is very difficult for him. I asked, "do you mean you're ready to die?" He said yes.

June 25, 1998
Last night when I gave him his medications, he said, "promise me that these are the last medications." I said I could not promise that — that it was not within my control.

And later that day:
He's much more restless this afternoon — having a very hard time getting to sleep. He stares blankly around the room, looks right at me but doesn't see me. His skin is cooler.

His pain is worse today. I called the nurse and said we must increase the morphine or the Duragesic or both.

Later that evening, and this is so typically JR:
John is carrying on tonight about a set of eight disks he wants me to create and some message that's supposed to be on the disks. He says "copy a: to b:/ and make two sets." Then he wants to know whether I was done and what it was called. Then he said I needed to list the b:/ network.

June 26, 1998
We're very close. When the hospice social worker came this afternoon, John told her he was ready to die. She told him good-bye when she left.

June 27, 1998 (Saturday)
A music thanatologist, or harp therapist, came this morning and played prescriptive music for him for an hour. Sounds very woo-woo, but it wasn't at all. It was quite wonderful and peaceful. He's resting comfortable.

Later that day:
He has not slept much this afternoon. He just stares blankly around the room and has little conversations with all the people inside his head. Finally it dawned on me that he's afraid — if he goes to sleep he might not wake up.

So he's very conflicted. On one hand, his body doesn't work anymore and he wants to be rid of it. On the other, he doesn't want to leave his loved ones behind. What a dilemma.

June 28, 1998
A little earlier this evening, John reached up as if to twist dials and flip switches. Then he said something about getting on board. So I think he's just waiting for the flight crew to come and get him.

Two minutes ago he said, for the second time this evening, "Okay, let's go.

June 29, 1998
The nurse came by an hour ago and said he doesn't think today is the day. He says it should be this week, but not today.

John has not eaten since Thurs., and is now not drinking — everything comes up. So ice chips and little sips of water when it's medication time.

June 30, 1998

10:01:00
John is having great difficulty swallowing, so difficulty in taking his medications. His internal store of morphine is low this morning, so he's in great pain and moaning quite a bit. I continue to pray for his release from this jail of pain.

17:28:20
John has had a day from hell. Right now we're waiting for the ambulance to come and take him to hospice where he will spend some time while we try to get his pain under control. I don't ever want another day like this one has been.

22:52:46
After the worst day we've ever had, I called hospice and asked if they could take John in-unit tonight to try to stabilize the pain. The ambulance arrived at 5 'til 6:00. We arrived at hospice at 6:30 p.m. The staff asked me to wait in the lobby area while they got him settled in bed. In less than five minutes they came out and said, "he's gone."

He was one remarkable person who enriched my life beyond compare. I will miss him forever, but I am so grateful that he is no longer in pain.

From my remarks at his musical memorial service on July 27, 1998:
For the past 10 years, it has been my pleasure to be friends with John Ross. For the past two-and-a-half years, it has been my privilege to be married to him, and for the past 21 months my blessing to be his primary caregiver as he battled the demon cancer.

And I'll close this very long but heartfelt post by sharing with you the note TJ referenced in his poem. This was, again, so typical of John to leave me lighthearted notes when he had left early for the office or had raced out the door for an early tee time. This, a reminder not to set the security system because the cleaning lady would come that day:

Dear One -
Don't arm on Tuesday!
Bless you for caring for me.
Love,
J