Jane Henkel, In Memoriam

Yesterday afternoon, while I was writing my "Ducks in a Row" post (see below), I learned that my good friend, Jane Henkel, died Tuesday night. Jane had liver cancer. If I remember correctly, she was 58 (and still working as a staff attorney for the Wisconsin legislature) when she was diagnosed. She was given two years to live. She way outlived the prognosis--she would have turned 66 on March 21.

Jane and her husband Jim were the first friends I made when we moved to Madison in 1976. Jim and my husband Steve had sailed together in high school, along with a third friend, Doug Tormey. The Tormeys also moved back to Madison that summer, and the three men bought an E-scow together and began winning many, many races. Jane, a consummate athlete, often sailed with them. (Was I jealous? Just guess! There is nothing quite as exhilarating as hiking out--leaning your whole body out of the boat, parallel to the water--on a sunny, breezy summer day, except maybe riding your bike downhill at 35 or 40 mph in western Dane County on a long and beautiful summer evening.)

When we realized that we were going to stay in Madison (we had come for a two-year post-doc) and bought a house on Sherman Avenue, with a backyard on Lake Mendota, the boat and the sailing program moved into our back yard. Jim and Jane were around virtually every weekend, and many Wednesday evenings, too, hanging out before and after races. And I couldn't begin to count the number of Friday evenings they came over for pizza and dominoes in those years. It was our regular Friday night entertainment. And the Henkels remained steadfast friends--to both Steve and me, and to our sons--through our divorce and afterward; of all our friends and acquaintances the only people able to accomplish this difficult feat.

Jane and I were in many ways very different. She was a quiet, private person, not interested in making the details of her disease and treatment public. She was extremely conversant with computers (during and after college she worked as a programmer at the UW Computer Center, and in the past seven years, she used the computer extensively to edit and make slide shows of her excellent flower photographs) but she would never have considered writing a blog! But she was my role model. Not only did she outlive a grim prognosis by many years, she understood that if you're alive, it's incumbent on you to live, and live fully.

After her diagnosis, between chemo treatments, she and Jim road biked through many (mountainous) countries in Europe, and skied and mountain-biked in Colorado and other western states. Jane continued to bike regularly on Wednesday nights until just a few years ago, when the combination of treatment and disease slowed her down too much to make the rides enjoyable. (But finally, I could keep up with her!) Still, she found other people to ride with on other days, and continued riding into last summer. After her retirement, she returned to playing music with others, as she had in high school, and began serious study of the recorder. (When I started taking cello lessons, we tried to play duets, but she was so much better than I that we had to give it up.) She attended recorder workshops and played in several glorious concerts in the Capitol rotunda. And she was a regular at the gym. The last time I saw her, in fact, was at our spinning (stationery bike) class last Wednesday. There was no way to know she would not be there on Monday, too.

Several people have offered me condolences today, and asked, concerned, how I feel. The truth is, I'm sad, but I feel pretty good. Even in death, Jane is a role model. I realize, now, that the end of life isn't necessarily the bed-ridden weeks, surrounded by long-faced family and friends, that I have imagined. It could be as short as three days. Because as Jane knew, you have to live until you die.

Gratitude

I should be packing for my trip to DC, but I've been thinking all day about writing one last post before I leave both Madison and the blog for the weekend. I'm calling it "gratitude," though I think that word's more than a little over-used these days. Isn't "thanks" good enough anymore? But "thanks" isn't exactly an attitude, and "thankfulness" has a kind of made-up, awkward quality to it. Anyway, here are a few of the things I'm thankful for--all the time, not just in this week of gobbling good food:

The radiation therapy that helped cure my Hodgkin's disease in 1982, and no doubt caused the tumor that grew in my stomach, smack in the middle of the radiation field. It enabled me to live long enough to raise my sons, who were 3 and 6 when the Hodgkin's was diagnosed, and to see them become young men of whom I'm very proud.

The health insurance I was able to get through my former employer, the State of Wisconsin. Also, Medicare-- that "socialized" medicine option for those of us who are disabled or over 65. Everyone should have such options.

My highly-skilled and very compassionate doctors, nurses, and other health care providers.

The nearly three years since I was diagnosed with stomach cancer, and especially the past 15 months, since I learned it had spread to my lungs. Recently, someone looked deeply into my eyes and said, a little too soulfully for my taste, "You're on a journey." I wanted to say, aren't we all? Because of course we are, from the moment we're born. But it's a real gift to have the nature of the journey so impressed on you that you not only want to live fully, consciously, without regret--but actually try to!

The technological advances that make it possible for me to communicate without much of a voice. (Big concession from a would-be Luddite.)

And most important, the friends and family who provide emotional and physical support in whatever way they can: through e-mail, little gifts, dinner invitations, offers of rides, prayers.... Too many ways to enumerate!

May you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving with your friends and loved ones, and may you gather back here next week when I will have some suggestions about how we can create a real discussion in the comments section about realities (illness, dying, death, the benefits of socialized medicine, to name just a few) most of us find hard to face.