In the late summer of 2007, an irritating cough began to trouble my husband, disturbing our sleep. We initially attributed it to Michigan’s changing seasons. His doctor diagnosed bronchitis and prescribed a five-day course of antibiotics, but the cough persisted.
A second round of antibiotics and a subsequent scan revealed a suspected tumor on the periphery of his lung. I was driving home from work when he called to tell me, after I had asked if he received a new prescription. After four years of marriage, his subtle change in tone immediately signaled to me that something was terribly wrong. His words, “I’m so sorry,” almost made me drive off the road.
This nightmare occurred before smartphones, so I relied on a desktop computer to understand medical terms like “cytopathology” and differentiate between “core biopsy” and “needle biopsy.” Without a science background, this new vocabulary was overwhelming. However, the word “cancer” was not new.
My father had died in 1979 at age 30 due to a misdiagnosis, and I had convinced myself that I had already “paid my dues” to cancer and that this wouldn’t happen again.
Less than four weeks later, an oncologist told us my husband had less than seven months to live. He had advanced adrenal cancer. I distinctly remember counting on my fingers to determine what month that would be.
Above all, he wished to die at home. To facilitate this, a hospital room was set up in our primary suite, complete with home hospice care. It was there that I learned to manage his care.
Nothing could have prepared me for the journey ahead. I quickly learned to administer sublingual morphine, meticulously tracking doses on a Post-it Note—a curious choice, looking back, given the chaos of caregiving. I also became adept at discerning his pain levels by observing his facial expressions and listening to his breathing.
During his final week, my husband became non-verbal, yet he still responded to my voice with nods or by gripping my hand when asked. On his last night, less than eight weeks after being misdiagnosed with bronchitis, I yearned for sleep. Having gone weeks without sleep, constantly waking before my alarm to check his breathing, I finally slept deeply, only to awaken at midnight to my alarm and discover he had passed away in his sleep. Panic set in; there was no relief that his pain was gone. I simply wanted to die. I vividly recall some last words to me: “I love you…I have no fear of dying. I just don’t want to leave you behind.”
And yet, I was left behind.
Almost 18 years have passed since his death, and I’ve pursued various avenues to aid my healing. I traveled globally, interviewing widows about their grief journeys. With the support of a publisher, I compiled their stories, alongside practical advice from experts, into my book “A Widow’s Guide to Healing.”
To this day, I still blame myself for not doing more. I was asleep on his final night, and I honestly wish I had been awake.
Through trial and error, I discovered that there’s no escaping grief; it waits for you, even if you try to bury it with work, friendships, or relationships.
For years, I mistook people- pleasing for kindness, a misguided attempt to fill an unfillable void. While this may sound self-centered, I still support non-profits and close friends, but my people-pleasing tendencies have greatly diminished. Interestingly, the less I try to fill that void, the more content and peaceful I become. The grief remains, but its intensity has lessened.
To find solace, I turn to the grief stories of others and the wisdom of those on their healing journeys. Words, I’ve found, possess a remarkable power to reshape our perception of the world. Hearing and reading the experiences of others reminds us that we are not alone.