I think of Carol Gulley when I read this passage, “Love Deeply,” by Henry Neuwen in his book The Inner Voice Of love.

“When those you love leave you, or die, your heart will be broken. But that should not hold you back from loving deeply. The pain that comes from deep love makes your love ever more fruitful. It is like a plow that breaks the ground to allow the seed t take root and grow into a strong plant.”

Carol’s heart is bending, but I think it will not break. There is an inner strength there that is as powerful as death in many ways.

For the past few weeks I’ve watched my friend Ed Gulley slowly die from brain cancer and my friend Carol Gulley grow stronger and sadder by the day, as she comes to terms  with the fact that Ed will not be with us much longer.

Every day, she sees her great love die a little more, every day she gains strength and wisdom. Every day, she stops seeking miracles.

The hospice phrase for Ed’s condition is “in transition,” when the process of actively dying begins, and the body’s brain, heart and other organs begin to slowly shut down. Every day for the past few weeks, I have seen Ed grow thinner, sicker, weaker and less coherent.

Ed has complained – sometimes emotionally – about the pain he is feeling, but it seems to come from no single place, but everywhere. It seems to come from the cancer itself, spreading through his body.

Carol seen her farmer begin to fail, of course, closer and more often than anyone.

Ed is the center of her universe and he has defined, shaped and filled her life for nearly a half century. They had plenty of troubles over their long marriage, but they were very much a couple, partners on their farm through many years of devotion and grueling work.

A love story.

Today, Ed could barely speak, he is sinking into transition,  he is on morphine and other medications, he is rarely coherent and sleeps now almost all day, subsisting on a diet of ice cream and chocolate pudding.

It is hard for him to speak, swallow, talk, or stay awake for more than a few seconds. He can’t sit up.

He says he is in pain, the but the hospice staff believes he is feeling the “other pain,” the awful sensation of being immobile for days and feeling one’s organs begin to stop functioning. When I think about it, it is painful.

Curiously, as Ed becomes less active and aware, the process becomes more merciful. Hospice is doing it’s job, so is Carol, together they are making him comfortable and he is moving beyond fear and confusion into another kind of space. He no longer asks for help in dying, he no longer asks what is happening to him.

He is moving on.

Penny, the hospice aide came to wash him and check on him and make sure he is comfortable.  She talks to him constantly, touches  him, tells  him just what she is doing, gives him some ice cream and cold water.

In the hours that I was there, he only spoke to me once, and said in a hoarse whisper, “thanks,” after I read to him. I did not think  he was awake.

Carol, who suffers from depression,  severe at times, is facing the saddest and most harrowing time of her life. I can only describe her as unwavering, even as what is happening is beyond her worst nightmare.

She is a rock, as is her family.

Carol has day by day come to terms with the fact that Ed’s time with her and his children and grandchildren is getting short, that he really is going to die, that there will be no more trips, no more walks, no more sketches or drawings, no more painted vases.

Darkness is a good and perhaps necessary teacher. When all is said and done, we can’t avoid it, deny it, explain it or rationalize it. We can succumb or be led into grace.

Carol can say the words now, to herself and  to him. You have cancer, you are dying, there is nothing we can do, we will meet in a better place.  She couldn’t say that until just a few days ago. Stronger, sadder.

Carol has begun thinking about Ed’s funeral wishes and even thinking about her life beyond him and their marriage. She hates to even think that way, and she hates to talk about his death as being inevitable, she says she can’t imagine a life without him, but she also says she knows she will survive. I think she is beginning to believe it.

Carol always refers to Ed as My Farmer, she never refers to herself as a farmer.

But she is a farmer, in every way.

She is a strong and powerful woman, she was on the tractor as much as any man, out in the field all day, but she comes from another time, when women looked at men and themselves in a different way. She saw it as Ed’s farm, she was there to support him. She was My Farmer’s wife.

She is eager to return to my writing class, she loves to sit and talk with the powerful women who are coming to see her.

Her writing on her blog suggests to me that even as she suffers, there is also an awakening.  She intends to have a meaningful life, for her sake, for her family, for Ed’s memory.

A couple of days she couldn’t even talk about administering medications to Ed, especially morphine, now she is doing what she needs to do and  fully accepting what is happening. Today I sat with Ed for several hours while Carol went to see a orthopedist about her torn ligaments.

I was holding my breath. This would be a horrible time for Carol to undergo surgery.

She was dreading the visit. Instead, they found an infection in her knee that was drained,  the doctor felt her ligaments could heal if she rested and got treatment. I was relieved to  hear that, so was she. No surgery for now.

The spiritual question is always can you stand erect in your pain, your hour of loneliness, your fears. As long as  you remain standing, you can speak freely to others, reach out to them, give to them and receive from them.

Carol is standing erect in her pain.

My reading for her tomorrow will be from Love Deeply, and for Carol. I”ll leave this book with her.

“The more you have loved and have allowed yourself to suffer because of your love, the more you will be able to let your heart grow wider and deeper. When your love is truly giving and receiving, those whom you love will not leave your heart even when they depart from you.

They will become part of your self and thus gradually build a community within you. The longer you live, there will always e more people to be loved by you and to become part of your inner community.

This the pain of  absence and  death can become fruitful. Yes, as you love deeply the ground of your heart will be broken more and more, but you will rejoice in the abundance of the fruit it will bear.”