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.