We celebrate birthdays and anniversaries. We teach children that the anniversary of their birth is a day to celebrate with cake and ice cream and presents. We celebrate our marriages each year on the anniversary of our weddings. Celebrations of life - reliving happy memories and cherishing our blessings.
But what about the anniversaries of death and of pain? They descend upon us with renewed anguish. They intensify our pain. A year ago Brian was alive. He had terminal cancer, but we didn't know it. We thought he had a bad gall bladder - we thought he would be ok. Yesterday, today and four months of tomorrows are anniversaries of horror. Memories of seeing him sick, of losing hope, of a doctor telling me that he was dying. Memories of what they did to his body - how they cut him open like a fish and stapled him back together like a torn package without fixing the broken parts inside. Memories of chemo fogging his mind and tormenting his body. Of procedures that didn't work. Of a perforated stomach - repaired, only to reperforate in a few days. Memories of bodily fluids, of drainage tubes. Of ticking machines and hospital noises. Memories of darkness and dispair, of loss and anger. Memories of life slowing slipping away - the fragility of the human body. Memories of drugs and medications, and over-medications. Of vomit and bile and urine.
Memories of a wonderful man, being eaten alive from the inside. A man I loved with all my heart who couldn't get out of bed, who couldn't eat, who couldn't fight the cancer cells that robbed him of his freedom and then his life. Memories of nights in the dark watching his chest rise and fall. Of jumping up to make sure he was still breathing. Memories of offering help and comfort and love. Help that didn't really help anything, and comfort that couldn't change anything, and love that maybe helped to make the whole business of dying a little less horrific - maybe, but probably not.
Memories of the end, when medications were no longer given to avoid pain, but rather to end pain. When I had to push the button that I knew would ultimately end his life, and which was the most painful thing and probably the most loving thing I have ever done. What do we do with those anniversaries? How do we survive them? How can I focus on how beautiful Brian was, and how brave, and gracious, and grateful he was until the end, when all I can feel is a pain so searing that I think I may not survive?
There is no cake, no ice cream, no possible way to honor him and to lessen the pain of those memories. No way to survive those anniversaries, but to brace yourself for an onslaught of pain and hurt and hope that we come out the other side relatively whole.
I am just at the beginning of so many of those anniversaries. Painful anniversaries that occur on New Years, on friend's birthdays, on our wedding anniversary. Pain that overshadows any celebration of life.
Last year New Years Eve day was spent in the emergency room. New Years Day spent in bed googling for some hope - hope that was crushed on January 8th.
Tuesday is New Year Eve - a time when we are told to reflect on the wonderful memories of the past year, and resolve to live fully in the coming one. There wasn't a moment of 2013 that wasn't shadowed with pain and loss, and looking ahead to 2014 is unbearable. It will be a year in which there are no new memories of Brian. A year in which he ceases to exist in the world, but lives so strongly in my heart. A love that can no longer be shared or expressed or enjoyed. A love so true that it has left a hole too large to be filled.
I don't know how to live with these anniversaries. I don't know how to manage this pain.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Thursday, December 26, 2013
2014
Having somehow survived Christmas, despite more pain and tears than I thought possible, today it dawned on me that tomorrow is another holiday. New Years. Another day to dread.
Brian and I were never New Years Eve party animals. We were pretty boring by conventional standards, and didn't really go for forced celebration. Most New Years Eves we just stayed home. We'd make a baked Brie, open a bottle of wine, and just have a quiet night together. And that was great. Last year on New Years Eve day we were in the hospital. That night, there was no brie or wine. That night we knew that something was seriously wrong. We spent New Years Day in bed watching a marathon of The Tudors - he dozing on and off, me trying to keep my worrying under control.
That first week on January was the start of a nightmare. He was so sick, so uncomfortable. He couldn't hold anything down. His abdomen was so full with ascites that it was difficult for him to breath and impossible for him to sleep. I worked, but came home several times to take him for periocentisis and doctors appointments. Evenings I spent running out for prescriptions, Gator aid, chicken soup, electrolyte popsicles - anything that might help him be more comfortable , anything that he could keep down. I tried to limit my tears to the car so he wouldn't see me cry. That week was horrible, but nothing compared to the weeks yet to come.
2013 was a horrible nightmare from day one. So many people have told me that 2014 is right around the corner, and that it will be a better year, and foolishly, until today, I thought "how could it possibly be worse?"
So today, for the first time, my mind wandered to New Years. I have nothing to celebrate - I won't be going out. Staying home with the love of your life is a gift. Staying home alone with memories of how sick he was is torture. But forget that one night - that holiday we refused to be pressured into celebrating - the whole reality of 2014 is incomprehensible. 2013 has been the worst year of my life, but he was here for four months. As sick as he was, until the last three days of his life he remained grateful, loving, funny, caring, smart - all those amazing qualities that endeared him to all he met and that made me fall head over heals in love with him. In 2013, we suffered so much loss, but like everything else in our relationship, we did it together.
Now, with the flip of a page in a calendar, I have to welcome a new year during which Brian is gone. In 2014 we won't sing, dance or cry together. I have to move on without him, and I don't know how. I don't know how to handle this pain.
I have cried every single day since 12-28-13, but today tears and grief were like those from last January when I had to face the unthinkable. Last year fate was cruel and made me watch my husband die. In 2014, fate will force me to live in a year with no shared memories, no contact, no comfort. My broken heart will be forced to beat day after day, and the only person who could possibly help me come to terms with this cruel turn of events can't be here with me.
I feel so alone, so isolated, so completely lost. Each day is filled with loss and fear. The depths of despair seem to have no limits, and I do not have the tools needed to navigate through this cold void.
Brian and I were never New Years Eve party animals. We were pretty boring by conventional standards, and didn't really go for forced celebration. Most New Years Eves we just stayed home. We'd make a baked Brie, open a bottle of wine, and just have a quiet night together. And that was great. Last year on New Years Eve day we were in the hospital. That night, there was no brie or wine. That night we knew that something was seriously wrong. We spent New Years Day in bed watching a marathon of The Tudors - he dozing on and off, me trying to keep my worrying under control.
That first week on January was the start of a nightmare. He was so sick, so uncomfortable. He couldn't hold anything down. His abdomen was so full with ascites that it was difficult for him to breath and impossible for him to sleep. I worked, but came home several times to take him for periocentisis and doctors appointments. Evenings I spent running out for prescriptions, Gator aid, chicken soup, electrolyte popsicles - anything that might help him be more comfortable , anything that he could keep down. I tried to limit my tears to the car so he wouldn't see me cry. That week was horrible, but nothing compared to the weeks yet to come.
2013 was a horrible nightmare from day one. So many people have told me that 2014 is right around the corner, and that it will be a better year, and foolishly, until today, I thought "how could it possibly be worse?"
So today, for the first time, my mind wandered to New Years. I have nothing to celebrate - I won't be going out. Staying home with the love of your life is a gift. Staying home alone with memories of how sick he was is torture. But forget that one night - that holiday we refused to be pressured into celebrating - the whole reality of 2014 is incomprehensible. 2013 has been the worst year of my life, but he was here for four months. As sick as he was, until the last three days of his life he remained grateful, loving, funny, caring, smart - all those amazing qualities that endeared him to all he met and that made me fall head over heals in love with him. In 2013, we suffered so much loss, but like everything else in our relationship, we did it together.
Now, with the flip of a page in a calendar, I have to welcome a new year during which Brian is gone. In 2014 we won't sing, dance or cry together. I have to move on without him, and I don't know how. I don't know how to handle this pain.
I have cried every single day since 12-28-13, but today tears and grief were like those from last January when I had to face the unthinkable. Last year fate was cruel and made me watch my husband die. In 2014, fate will force me to live in a year with no shared memories, no contact, no comfort. My broken heart will be forced to beat day after day, and the only person who could possibly help me come to terms with this cruel turn of events can't be here with me.
I feel so alone, so isolated, so completely lost. Each day is filled with loss and fear. The depths of despair seem to have no limits, and I do not have the tools needed to navigate through this cold void.
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Christmas Day
Last year Christmas Day was the last time we went out for anything fun. We went with friends to see Les Miserable in the movie theatre, and then out for Chinese food.
I have always loved Les Mis. I had see the play 11 times in England, on Broadway and in Florida. It was my favorite. A few years ago Brian watched the 25 year anniversary concert video with me, and he, too, fell in love with the music of Les Miz. When the show came on tour we were able to buy tickets. His first time seeing the play was my 12th.
So last year on Christmas Day, I put on my 24601 shirt, and we eagerly went with friends to watch the movie on opening day. I think Brian enjoyed the film even more than I.
Afterwards, we all went out for Chinese food. The service was unusually bad, the food unusually unpalatable. When Brian's dinner arrived cold an inedible, he sent it back and opted not to order something else because his stomach felt unsettled.
That outing was our last. The last time we did anything for fun. The last time we left the house for anything other than trips to doctors or pharmacies. The last day when it wasn't obvious that Brian was really sick. December 25th, 2012, was the last day I lived without true worry or pain. Just three days later on December 28th, I took Brian to urgent care. We thought it was a gall bladder attack, and while I cried that my husband might need emergency surgery, Brian felt relief that a simple operation would fix everything.
How wrong we were! We had no idea that the next two weeks would be marked by visits to the er and various doctors appointments. We had no idea that we would spend New Years Eve Day in the hospital for his first of many periocentisis. We had no idea that on Monday January 7th I would take him for a doctor appointment, from which we went straight to the hospital. We didn't know that when we left the house that afternoon, he would never return. We didn't know that the exploratory surgery scheduled for January 8th would be a death sentence, and the first of many failed surgeries and procedures.
Last year on Christmas Day, Brian and I could still look forward to getting old together. We still could dream. We were so blessed with ignorance. 365 days later and all that is left are memories of a love story and marriage that were so extraordinary in their purity and depth. 365 days later, and the pain of last year is so heavy, so suffocating.
Today, Christmas Day 2013, I am supposed to go with friends to a movie and for Chinese food. Jewish Christmas. I can't do it. I can't go. The pain of all the memories are too heavy to bear. The next four months will be marked with so many horrific memories of one year ago. I'm grateful that I didn't keep a journal - that I can't place all of the terrible memories with specific dates, but it doesn't matter. A year later and my Brian, my one true love, is gone. Ashes buried in a grave. And while I shall always carry his love and light in my heart, it is far too soon for me to access them without having to peal away layers and layers of crippling pain.
My love for Brian is alive and true, but my heart is on life support, and right now - this Christmas - it's prognosis is bleak. I miss my Brian. I miss our life..
I have always loved Les Mis. I had see the play 11 times in England, on Broadway and in Florida. It was my favorite. A few years ago Brian watched the 25 year anniversary concert video with me, and he, too, fell in love with the music of Les Miz. When the show came on tour we were able to buy tickets. His first time seeing the play was my 12th.
So last year on Christmas Day, I put on my 24601 shirt, and we eagerly went with friends to watch the movie on opening day. I think Brian enjoyed the film even more than I.
Afterwards, we all went out for Chinese food. The service was unusually bad, the food unusually unpalatable. When Brian's dinner arrived cold an inedible, he sent it back and opted not to order something else because his stomach felt unsettled.
That outing was our last. The last time we did anything for fun. The last time we left the house for anything other than trips to doctors or pharmacies. The last day when it wasn't obvious that Brian was really sick. December 25th, 2012, was the last day I lived without true worry or pain. Just three days later on December 28th, I took Brian to urgent care. We thought it was a gall bladder attack, and while I cried that my husband might need emergency surgery, Brian felt relief that a simple operation would fix everything.
How wrong we were! We had no idea that the next two weeks would be marked by visits to the er and various doctors appointments. We had no idea that we would spend New Years Eve Day in the hospital for his first of many periocentisis. We had no idea that on Monday January 7th I would take him for a doctor appointment, from which we went straight to the hospital. We didn't know that when we left the house that afternoon, he would never return. We didn't know that the exploratory surgery scheduled for January 8th would be a death sentence, and the first of many failed surgeries and procedures.
Last year on Christmas Day, Brian and I could still look forward to getting old together. We still could dream. We were so blessed with ignorance. 365 days later and all that is left are memories of a love story and marriage that were so extraordinary in their purity and depth. 365 days later, and the pain of last year is so heavy, so suffocating.
Today, Christmas Day 2013, I am supposed to go with friends to a movie and for Chinese food. Jewish Christmas. I can't do it. I can't go. The pain of all the memories are too heavy to bear. The next four months will be marked with so many horrific memories of one year ago. I'm grateful that I didn't keep a journal - that I can't place all of the terrible memories with specific dates, but it doesn't matter. A year later and my Brian, my one true love, is gone. Ashes buried in a grave. And while I shall always carry his love and light in my heart, it is far too soon for me to access them without having to peal away layers and layers of crippling pain.
My love for Brian is alive and true, but my heart is on life support, and right now - this Christmas - it's prognosis is bleak. I miss my Brian. I miss our life..
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Weekends
Weekends suck.
Work days are so long, its all I can do to get through them. Weekends are drenched with pain and loneliness. Waking up alone, going to sleep alone. I hate it. During the day, I try to get out and be around friends, but I always feel the loss. Then coming home to a house without Brian. It hurts. Saturday nights are the worst. Others are home with their family or out on the town. I'm alone with my pain.
When he was here, we often stayed in on the weekends, and that was great. It was our time. Now it is just so hard.
There are others who can not understand why my pain is so bad now, and they've made that clear in some not so kind ways. I want to talk it through with Brian. I want to share what has become of my life.
My back has healed well from surgery, but my eye problem is bad. While I've been struggling with this for over two years, I now feel visually impaired. It scares me, and I can't lean on Brian for help and support. I'm taking some powerful medications that may or may not help, and which offer the risk of serious side effects. I'm terrified. The first time that I needed an injection in my eye, Brian was in the room with me sharing his strength. Now I have to face all these challenges alone and I'm searching within for courage that I can't seem to find.
It sounds like I only miss Brian for the things he did for me and for his help. That's not true. When things are challenging I struggle without his support and belief in me, but what I miss most is him. I miss his huge laugh, his larger than life personality. I miss his arms around me. I miss dancing with him and Lola in our kitchen. I miss the peach fuzz on his shaved head. I miss his smell. I miss the sound of his voice. I miss HIM.
He told me to embrace life. He wanted me to live without fear, but I'm paralyzed by my fears.
Oh, Brian. I would not have traded a moment of my time with you for anything. Our relationship was the greatest gift in my life, and I'm so grateful for it, but I don't know how to live alone or how to quiet my fears.
Work days are so long, its all I can do to get through them. Weekends are drenched with pain and loneliness. Waking up alone, going to sleep alone. I hate it. During the day, I try to get out and be around friends, but I always feel the loss. Then coming home to a house without Brian. It hurts. Saturday nights are the worst. Others are home with their family or out on the town. I'm alone with my pain.
When he was here, we often stayed in on the weekends, and that was great. It was our time. Now it is just so hard.
There are others who can not understand why my pain is so bad now, and they've made that clear in some not so kind ways. I want to talk it through with Brian. I want to share what has become of my life.
My back has healed well from surgery, but my eye problem is bad. While I've been struggling with this for over two years, I now feel visually impaired. It scares me, and I can't lean on Brian for help and support. I'm taking some powerful medications that may or may not help, and which offer the risk of serious side effects. I'm terrified. The first time that I needed an injection in my eye, Brian was in the room with me sharing his strength. Now I have to face all these challenges alone and I'm searching within for courage that I can't seem to find.
It sounds like I only miss Brian for the things he did for me and for his help. That's not true. When things are challenging I struggle without his support and belief in me, but what I miss most is him. I miss his huge laugh, his larger than life personality. I miss his arms around me. I miss dancing with him and Lola in our kitchen. I miss the peach fuzz on his shaved head. I miss his smell. I miss the sound of his voice. I miss HIM.
He told me to embrace life. He wanted me to live without fear, but I'm paralyzed by my fears.
Oh, Brian. I would not have traded a moment of my time with you for anything. Our relationship was the greatest gift in my life, and I'm so grateful for it, but I don't know how to live alone or how to quiet my fears.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Feeling
I survived last weekend, and I survived the week, but it was long and difficult and I'm exhausted. Remembering so many lasts from this time last year - from before the cancer diagnosis changed everything. It was just a year ago, but it was a lifetime ago. I do my hair and put on lipstick and go out in the world and function, but then I come home to my empty house and I'm alone, and I hate it. The nights are long and sleepless.
A few people have said things to me this week that have really hurt. They somehow think that I should be over it by now. How is someone going to get over loss in 8 months. He died 8 months yesterday. And last year Christmas Day was the last time we went out socially. And last year New Years Eve Day we spent in the emergency room. And this year on January 8th, the doctor told me he would die. How can anyone be so callous as to think that I should be over it by now?
It hurts, and I feel so much pain, so much loss. So alone. Alone and untouchable. When I'm with my friends, I can suppress the pain, but as soon as it's just me, the pain is back and more suffocating than before.
I recently met a man who lost his wife to cancer in July. I saw him last night, and we spoke, and cried, and for those few minutes I thought that there is someone who I can talk to who feels the extreme loss that I feel. And when he told his story, I cried for him and for the cruelty he experienced. For the first time, I've felt that there is someone who can really empathize, and while that doesn't relieve the pain, it does give me some hope. And when he kindly reached out and touched my arm, I thought that maybe someday I'll be able to feel again.
It's a bleak rainy weekend, and I hate being alone with my memories. I don't know which hurt more - the good or the bad ones. I just know that this loss is not going to heal on anyone's schedule - if it heals at all.
A few people have said things to me this week that have really hurt. They somehow think that I should be over it by now. How is someone going to get over loss in 8 months. He died 8 months yesterday. And last year Christmas Day was the last time we went out socially. And last year New Years Eve Day we spent in the emergency room. And this year on January 8th, the doctor told me he would die. How can anyone be so callous as to think that I should be over it by now?
It hurts, and I feel so much pain, so much loss. So alone. Alone and untouchable. When I'm with my friends, I can suppress the pain, but as soon as it's just me, the pain is back and more suffocating than before.
I recently met a man who lost his wife to cancer in July. I saw him last night, and we spoke, and cried, and for those few minutes I thought that there is someone who I can talk to who feels the extreme loss that I feel. And when he told his story, I cried for him and for the cruelty he experienced. For the first time, I've felt that there is someone who can really empathize, and while that doesn't relieve the pain, it does give me some hope. And when he kindly reached out and touched my arm, I thought that maybe someday I'll be able to feel again.
It's a bleak rainy weekend, and I hate being alone with my memories. I don't know which hurt more - the good or the bad ones. I just know that this loss is not going to heal on anyone's schedule - if it heals at all.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Difficult weekend
This weekend sucked. The worst I've had in quite some time. I don't know if it was that I'm approaching so many painful anniversaries and facing so many horrible memories. I don't know if it was being cooped up from the snow. I don't know if it was the return of my eye pain and frustration over that. Maybe it's just part of the process. Regardless, it was horrible. I cried through most of it, and almost had a complete emotional breakdown at the Y. People politely ignored me and turned their heads. One woman snickered. Nobody asked if I was ok.
The isolation is horrible. I miss Brian so much. I was inconsolable, and just wanted to feel his arms around me. It's been so long since I've had a hug. I hugged him before his surgery on December 8th. After his surgery that day, he had so many tubes and drains, he couldn't hug me anymore. I didn't realize how horrible it is to not be touched. We always held hands. When we stood in line I leaned up against him. We hugged all the time.
Yesterday I stood at the Y, and I just wanted someone to hug me. I just wanted to feel connected to life. I just need to feel again.
The isolation is horrible. I miss Brian so much. I was inconsolable, and just wanted to feel his arms around me. It's been so long since I've had a hug. I hugged him before his surgery on December 8th. After his surgery that day, he had so many tubes and drains, he couldn't hug me anymore. I didn't realize how horrible it is to not be touched. We always held hands. When we stood in line I leaned up against him. We hugged all the time.
Yesterday I stood at the Y, and I just wanted someone to hug me. I just wanted to feel connected to life. I just need to feel again.
Lipstick
They say to fake it till you make it, so I'm trying. I colored my hair and had it trimmed. I started wearing makeup again. It's amazing what a little lipstick can do. So many people told me how great I look. My hair is great, I look so much happier, I've lost weight. So beautiful. It's so easy to put on a costume and play the part.
Then I went home and washed my face, and what I saw shocked me. My eyes are dead. How can a little lipstick cover up this grief and depression? I cry whenever I'm alone (and sometimes in public), I don't sleep at night, I've lost 20 pounds because I have no appetite and don't eat.
My physical pain is better, but emotionally? I've never been this depressed. I've never experienced this kind of pain. I have so much love and support, but I miss intimacy - and I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about someone who really understands me without me having to explain. I miss the ability to be myself, to not wear the costume, to not self-censor. I miss the absolute and unconditional trust that Brian and I shared.
I miss the life we built together. The love, the laughter - the intimacy.
I guess I'll buy more lipstick.
Then I went home and washed my face, and what I saw shocked me. My eyes are dead. How can a little lipstick cover up this grief and depression? I cry whenever I'm alone (and sometimes in public), I don't sleep at night, I've lost 20 pounds because I have no appetite and don't eat.
My physical pain is better, but emotionally? I've never been this depressed. I've never experienced this kind of pain. I have so much love and support, but I miss intimacy - and I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about someone who really understands me without me having to explain. I miss the ability to be myself, to not wear the costume, to not self-censor. I miss the absolute and unconditional trust that Brian and I shared.
I miss the life we built together. The love, the laughter - the intimacy.
I guess I'll buy more lipstick.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Depression
I've been trying so hard to figure out how to live with grief. I don't know how to do it. I reach out to my friends, I force myself to get out, I try to rationalize my feelings, but there is no denying that I'm depressed. Severely depressed - and therapy or antidepressants aren't going to fix it.
I am not good at being alone with myself. I miss Brian. The loneliness is suffocating. I can't imagine that time can heal this unbearable loneliness.
I am not good at being alone with myself. I miss Brian. The loneliness is suffocating. I can't imagine that time can heal this unbearable loneliness.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Today
Today he was supposed to turn 49.
Today we were supposed to celebrate.
Today we were supposed to reminis about all our wonderful memories from the past year, and look forward to making memories together for years into the future.
Today nothing is as it should be.
Today we were supposed to celebrate.
Today we were supposed to reminis about all our wonderful memories from the past year, and look forward to making memories together for years into the future.
Today nothing is as it should be.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Comfort?
There is no comfort, only distraction. I reach out to friends, I work, I try to stay occupied; but the pain is always there, right at the surface. When the distraction ends, the pain returns with a shocking force. I am defenceless. I have no power to tame the despair. I am broken, torn, and isolated in my pain.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
stages of grief
How do you define grief? I haven't looked it up in the dictionary - and I'm not sure one can define it as grief changes with time.
Initially there was fear - fear of watching my husband suffer, fear of the unknown, fear that I wouldn't be strong enough to be there for Brian.
Then comes the selfish fear. How will I live without him. Fear of moving forward without my lover, my best friend, my confidant. Fear of being alone and lonely.
As the disease took over, the exhaustion set in. Life became focused on what little I could do to make him more comfortable. I brought him water, I gave him baths, I irrigated drainage tubs, emptied urinals, changed bedding, held the basin and wiped his mouth when he vomited. Nothing mattered more than his meager needs. I wasn't eating properly, I wasn't sleeping enough, I wasn't taking care of my own health. I just needed to be there to do anything and everything that I could do for him. The exhaustion was consuming, and when he slept, and I stayed up watching his chest rise and fall, I cried out of frustration with my powerlessness and my sheer exhaustion.
But things only get worse. You approach the final days. In his last week it was clear that Brian was slipping fast. He could no longer communicate and I had to guess as to what I could do to him. At that point the grief shifted its focus to me. At that point I knew he would be gone, and that knowledge is crushing. I tried to make sure he was aware that he wasn't alone - I sang our song to him, I promised him I wouldn't leave his side - and all the while the tears flowed. I couldn't hide the grief; I couldn't pretend to be anything but shattered.
I think that the absolute worst time, the most crippling moments were in the last two days. The days during which it was clear that I had to hit the mophine button - not to relieve his pain, but to end his pain.
He died at 5am on Saturday morning - 14weeks and 4 days after his diagnosis. 34 days in a hospital bed, 66 days in a hospice bed. He never came home, he never felt the sun on his face, he never left the bed. For the last hour oh his life I layed with him in bed and held him in my arms. At 5am he squeezed my hand, took two more breaths, and was gone. Just one day earlier, his last words, his only word were "Love You".
And that was it. I asked everyone to leave, and I bathed my husband's body. I kissed him goodbye, covered him with clean sheets, and waited until they came for his body,
That was April 20. Now its December 1. People think that the worst should be over. What do they know? The greif isn't over, it isn't better. It is different. And the one and only person who truly knows me, who understands how I think and how I feel, is gone. Cancer killed my Brian, and now my grief is like a cancer - it won't kill me, but it makes me question my ability to live.
Initially there was fear - fear of watching my husband suffer, fear of the unknown, fear that I wouldn't be strong enough to be there for Brian.
Then comes the selfish fear. How will I live without him. Fear of moving forward without my lover, my best friend, my confidant. Fear of being alone and lonely.
As the disease took over, the exhaustion set in. Life became focused on what little I could do to make him more comfortable. I brought him water, I gave him baths, I irrigated drainage tubs, emptied urinals, changed bedding, held the basin and wiped his mouth when he vomited. Nothing mattered more than his meager needs. I wasn't eating properly, I wasn't sleeping enough, I wasn't taking care of my own health. I just needed to be there to do anything and everything that I could do for him. The exhaustion was consuming, and when he slept, and I stayed up watching his chest rise and fall, I cried out of frustration with my powerlessness and my sheer exhaustion.
But things only get worse. You approach the final days. In his last week it was clear that Brian was slipping fast. He could no longer communicate and I had to guess as to what I could do to him. At that point the grief shifted its focus to me. At that point I knew he would be gone, and that knowledge is crushing. I tried to make sure he was aware that he wasn't alone - I sang our song to him, I promised him I wouldn't leave his side - and all the while the tears flowed. I couldn't hide the grief; I couldn't pretend to be anything but shattered.
I think that the absolute worst time, the most crippling moments were in the last two days. The days during which it was clear that I had to hit the mophine button - not to relieve his pain, but to end his pain.
He died at 5am on Saturday morning - 14weeks and 4 days after his diagnosis. 34 days in a hospital bed, 66 days in a hospice bed. He never came home, he never felt the sun on his face, he never left the bed. For the last hour oh his life I layed with him in bed and held him in my arms. At 5am he squeezed my hand, took two more breaths, and was gone. Just one day earlier, his last words, his only word were "Love You".
And that was it. I asked everyone to leave, and I bathed my husband's body. I kissed him goodbye, covered him with clean sheets, and waited until they came for his body,
That was April 20. Now its December 1. People think that the worst should be over. What do they know? The greif isn't over, it isn't better. It is different. And the one and only person who truly knows me, who understands how I think and how I feel, is gone. Cancer killed my Brian, and now my grief is like a cancer - it won't kill me, but it makes me question my ability to live.
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