Passing it on

Purple is the color of pancreatic cancer. A friend in Eastport gave me this gentle bracelet several months ago, after his wife had died. They had been our first source of support when we let the greater community know of Frank's diagnosis in November 2010. He said, simply, "Pass this on to the next person."

On Saturday, that moment happened. I sat down with a friend, who lives locally and whose husband also has pancreatic cancer, and passed it on. I hope I can provide some comfort and support for both of them in the months ahead.

Points of "ouch"

Ouch. A box of checks that I recently ordered has arrived. I chose to take Frank's name off of our checks. We had the shared checking account more than eight years. Now, the checks read my name, only.

I am having a harder time with Facebook. I show "Married" in my profile, and I have no interest in changing that. To remove "Married" from there, is going to take me a long, long time.

Cancer in a small town

It occurs to me how fortunate Frank and I were to live where we lived, and that I still live here. "Here" is Washington County, Maine, and specifically in the county seat of Machias. Small town of about 2,500 people. I was always better with recognizing faces and remembering names than Frank was.

That ability comes in handy, and gets tested often, these days. I'm very glad to use it, to run into friends and acquaintances who know about Frank's journey and my loss. Now that I am getting out and about more, three months after his death, I am running into those who greet me with a hug and, "I'm sorry." Many I haven't seen in months, just because our worlds became so private and personal during Frank's 14 months of illness.

A year ago we visited my brother and his family in their New York City apartment. Nice place and all, but they are on the fifth floor of a high-rise building. Their balcony is separated by the next one by a waist-high wall. They could say hello to their neighbor if, say, they were both barbecuing outside at the same time. But in their then-year of living there, my brother and his neighbor had said hello, once.

If someone had cancer in New York City, we all surmised at the time, there would not be an outpouring of community support, the way Frank and I experienced in Maine. There would be a family's love and concern, but it wouldn't extend beyond the balcony separations.

That's why having cancer in a small town, was a good thing.

The flag is out

It's not all bad. There is good amid all my days. Late into Frank's illness, we decided that we would put our American flag outside our front door on our "good" days. It was a sign to all who passed, in car or on foot, that we were home, healthy and happy. And that visitors could stop by. There also were plenty of days when we didn't put the flag out, because Frank was having a bad day.

For most of the first 100 days, when I was home, I didn't put the flag out. I just didn't feel like having drop-ins, or talking about my new life, or my old life, either.

But, I can put the flag out again. It doesn't mean that I'm in the happiest of moods or times. It just means that -- I'm okay, and I would invite you in, if you knocked on my door.

100 days

It's been 100 days from Frank died. There really is no significance I can attach to that, other than it's been 100 days of waking up without him. And 100 days of not having him here to talk to. And 100 days of knowing it will be just like this, for the rest of my life.

I always think of "100 days" as the time a new US president has to go to work, to show what his agenda is and make some inroads on that. What can he show, for his first 100 days?

I know that, for my first 100 days without Frank, I'm still as sad on Day 100, as I was on Day 1. That tragic sadness hasn't eased any. I am as teary as ever in private, and as close to tears in conversations, as ever. Just reaching 100 days, doesn't change that.

I can only wonder what tomorrow will bring, aside from Day 101.

Where is Frank when I need him?

With Monday's all-day rain came some realizations. Frank's absence has left a huge hole in this house. Not simply a huge hole in my life.

The sump pump in the basement came on in early afternoon. Start, stop, start, stop, about every 25 seconds. Upstairs, I heard it, not realizing its on-off-on-off noises were just what happens normally. Once in the basement to check it out, I saw there was a serious leak in the plumbing. Every 25 seconds, big water would spray across the furnace and all over.

I'm not a basement gal, and never have been. That's always been Frank's domain. But Frank's not here to fix things, so I felt useless and helpless.

I called on Mike Shannon, the friend who built our deck five years ago. Frank and Mike became good friends through that deck-building process, which they did together. Mike was helpful to Frank in his last month here at home in particular.

Actually, Mike was helping Frank fix things on the very last day before Frank went to the VA Hospice Unit for the very last time, in early January. Frank had been saying for months that he had some things he wanted to get done in the basement, before he died. And Mike was there to help. They joked and laughed through the work, as usual. But it must have been weird for Mike: How does it feel to be helping a friend, who you know is going to die within a few days?

Three months later, Mike is now doing more tasks around the house for me, including putting on a new roof. That's the big thing, and we've got a list of other inside things he's working on.

But yesterday when I called Mike, it was for something completely new -- a sump pump leak that I didn't know how to handle. Was there anything I could turn off? Make it stop? When Mike arrived, we figured out an easy fix, for now. We put a plastic bucket over the leaking part, then topped it with a piece of scrap iron. Easy. We'll deal with the real problem later.

"What do I do when I need something done, and Frank's not here?," I asked Mike yesterday.

"Call me," Mike said.

I appreciate that, of course. And I know that Mike will turn up as needed. But yesterday, I really knew that Frank was gone. And Mike's availability and compassion notwithstanding, it just didn't feel very good, to not have Frank when I needed him.

"Three-to-six months"

Just a year ago, we heard those words from a doctor, that Frank had "three-to-six months to live."

That was April 20, 2011. He died on January 17, 2012.

On the day Frank was scheduled to have the life-extending Whipple Procedure, the doctor looked inside him ahead of what would have been a six-hour surgery. Just 20 minutes was all she needed to know that his cancer was inoperable. We experienced heartbreak all over again.

By the doctor's reasoning, the cancer was spreading so fast that he could be dead by July. Or, October at the latest. Three-to-six months. Those horrible words that you otherwise hear only in the movies. Those horrible words that you never want to hear in real life.

We didn't care for that prognosis, and we didn't count out the months ahead. We cried a lot, sure. But in the end, Frank lived for 14 months with pancreatic cancer. Most who get this cancer live for three-to-six months from the beginning. From his diagnosis in November 2010, to that April day when we learned his cancer was inoperable, we had hope. And then, for nine months more, we had each other.

"No tears!" -- and no, thank you

There is something you may hear for the first time in your life, once someone close to you dies. It's the most annoying phrase in the world: "No tears! No tears!".

I suppose it is said with the best intentions, but it just doesn't sit well with me. Lately I have been running into friends and acquaintances whom Frank and I knew together over the years. Many haven't seen me in months, or even a year, since our last year was very intense and mostly private in our parallel quests for treatment, nurturing and simply time alone together.

So when I see an old face, I am comforted when they say, "I am sorry you lost Frank." Time after time, even this morning, I well up with tears. Can't help it. They see this, and we both acknowledge my sadness.

But this morning at church, when one husband hugged me, his wife jumped in to say, "No tears! No tears!". She meant well, but to my ears, it sounded all wrong. Tears, and my response when someone mentions Frank, are right for me, for now.

I first heard the "No tears!" refrain last August, when I attended the memorial gathering of a friend who had died -- also of pancreatic cancer -- months earlier. The room was filled with loving friends who talked about her. There was a "Chin up!" attitude in the air. "No tears!" was the phrase in play that afternoon, and I guess that was okay, for that family.

But, it's not okay for me, for now.

I didn't go

Weeks later, it's Day 95.

I have stayed busy. It's easiest that way.

There was a 15-hour Relay for Life here last night through this morning, the American Cancer Society fundraiser. I understand there were 220 participants, including 75 who walked during the special lap for survivors and caregivers. Best of all, they raised $37,000 in just their fourth year. And some of the luminaries were in honor of Frank.

I couldn't bring myself to be there. This evening I'll spend some time with the main organizer and three Massachusetts friends who came up to support her, and who organize the Relay for Life in Worcester -- where their event in June will bring out 1,000 people.

But ... I could not have coped with yesterday. Too soon. Maybe all this being-busy works to keep me from feeling too much about losing Frank. It all feels too close, too soon and too uneasy.