Today is Ash Monday

Seeing as how this is my first blog post and all, let me first explain what I'm doing here. Less than two weeks ago, the love of my life, the man of my dreams - Jason - lost his fight against stage 4 Burkitt's Lymphoma. He died on May 28, 2009, exactly one year after he was diagnosed with that horrible disease.

These are two of the last pictures taken of Jason - in his hometown of Hudson, MA during our visit in April.

So much happened between May 28, 2008 and May 28, 2009. Too much to quantify here, but there were many many chemo treatments, radiation treatments, surgeries, a stem cell transplant, and the hope of another. There were ups and downs, and many good times as well as bad. I sat by his side every step of the way...helping him through the pain, the frustration, and the shock that death was inevitable. Through all of that, nothing mattered to me but the love we felt for each other.

This is an excerpt of the speech I'll be giving in a few days: "Jason taught me what love really means…and how true love actually feels. In our short time together, he taught me so much about myself…about life, perseverance, and about taking advantage of every opportunity. I did that with Jason…I took advantage of every opportunity to tell him how much I loved him, and how much he meant to me. The night before he died, I gave him a kiss and told him that I loved him. He opened his eyes and said I love you too. Those four words will echo in my head for the rest of my life. They were the last four words he said to me…and I can’t think of anything more perfect."

I'll post the full speech after Saturday.

Jason died exactly the way he wanted. He was at home, in bed...with his parents on one side and me on the other. We held his hands, caressed him, told him we loved him and that it was ok to let go. The last words he heard were words of love. It was THE most precious and amazing moment of my life...watching him go. While I was extremely upset and saddened to say goodbye, it was at that moment that his pain, his anger toward the cancer, and the cancer itself stopped. In that one single moment in time, his spirit was released from all the horrible things he'd endured in the last year...and for the three of us standing next to him, it was an incredible sight.

In the days since his death, I, along with his parents and close friends, have had trouble coming to terms with what has happened. I've run the gambit of emotions, and probably will continue to do so over and over and over. I was happy that he went so peacefully, but I hated to say goodbye...and the selfish side of me still wishes he was here to ease MY pain. I was with him through the hardest part in his life, and now it's the hardest part in my life...and it's not fair that I can't have him to help me through this. People say to me that he is here with me. His spirit is within me now. While I do believe that's true...I tell those who say it that, at this point, it offers little comfort. I'm sure down the road when I've come to terms with losing him, I will feel comforted to know his spirit will be with me forever. But right now, I'd rather have him - all of him. I need his hugs. I need his kisses. I need his soothing voice and calming words of support.

There's been such an amazing outpouring of support for me, Jason's friends, and his parents. People have offered advice, words of wisdom, even shoulders to cry on. I can't thank everyone enough for their support. However, with offers of help and advice also comes frustration, anger, and resentment. Everyone seems to be an expert on grief and is full of advice on how I should be handling this insurmountable loss. But, what most don't realize is that grief is a very personal thing, and everyone handles it differently. What you may have felt over the death of your mother or grandmother is not the same feeling I feel for the death of my partner...a man I shared a bed with night after night. That is what I've come to resent. There is not one single way to deal with this. Every situation is unique, and until you've experienced a loss like this, don't ever assume to know how I, or anyone else should be handling it.

My therapist - who I started seeing shortly after Jason's diagnosis last year - gave me a book to read this week. It's called "I'm Grieving As Fast As I Can". It's a book written for the young widow or widower...and I'll tell you what... I identified with it COMPLETELY! I saw myself in many of the examples and stories. The author wrote that people would try to tell you how to grieve. She wrote that people would expect that you would grieve a certain way and be over your loss in a certain amount of time. One of my favorite quotes from the book: "I feel like the Great Pretender... I'm exhausted from pretending everything is ok. I feel like I'm the star of my own Broadway show." This is SO true! I truly feel like I'm having to put on an act for everyone. I feel like I have to act the way they think I should...and that I'm not allowed to show my true emotions until I'm alone. This "acting" has driven me to at least one panic attack, and several more near attacks. I want to stop acting and show how I really feel, but I'm afraid that I'm too far into this to go back.

Jason wanted to be cremated, and that process takes about two weeks. He died on a Thursday, and we held a memorial service the following Saturday here in Dallas. Jason's wishes were to have his ashes buried in his hometown of Hudson, MA...and that will be happening this Saturday. That's why I call today "Ash Monday". Today, his ashes were ready to be picked up from the funeral home. His two closest friends and I went to the funeral home this afternoon and took Jason's remains back to his house. It was the weirdest feeling...knowing that the 6', 206lb man who just weeks before was standing in front of me giving me a hug...is now a pile of ashes inside this beautiful urn. I can't seem to wrap my brain around that. I sat at the house staring at the urn. I think I was half expecting him to suddenly pop out of it...like a big joke or something. I decided I couldn't stay in that house tonight...I couldn't sit there looking at the urn...the remains of what used to be my beloved partner.

Friday, I'll be boarding a plane with the urn in hand heading for Boston. Jason loved planes and he loved to fly. It'll be bittersweet on that plane Friday. It'll be Jason's final flight...and it's like I'm completing my final act as his partner...delivering him home to his parents. Saturday will be the burial service followed by a reception and memorial where his friends and family will share stories about him. After that...I think it'll finally sink in. Jason is gone. He's not just on vacation. He won't be coming back to me. After the burial, I think I'll finally be able to FEEL what I've been wanting to feel...and I'm not going to be afraid to show it. I won't hide it like I have been. I won't let others tell me how I SHOULD be grieving, or when I should be moving on. This will be MY time to remember him, to mourn him, to release myself and finally move on.

I turned 29 years old two weeks before Jason died. Never in my worst nightmares did I ever think I'd be dealing with the death of a partner before I turned 30. Some say I was lucky because we knew it was coming. I had the chance to say goodbye. To them I question - was it really lucky to sit there and watch a loved one go through excrutiating pain, unable to move, unable to feed himself, unable to speak...only grunt? Lucky? I think not. I was only afforded an opportunity. That is not luck.

I'll be going to work for the next few days, putting on my "I'm doing ok" face. Hopefully, I'll be able to keep myself distracted long enough to get some work done. We'll see what happens, I guess.

Until next time...

Stuart