Blog My Mind

  Months before my husband died, I watched a TEDx talk about moving forward from a loss, because there is no moving on. It made sense at the time, but now I understand it more deeply than ever.   Every day I get moments, reminders, that there is no moving on, but I do my best to move forward, one foot in front of the other, one moment at a time, one day at a time.   I hit a big milestone this week when John’s life insurance was finally paid. It took more phone calls than I can count, pissy emails to the agent who sold us the policy, threats of legal action, before they finally fulfilled their obligation to me and his kids, three months after his death. Having that behind me is the first step in allowing me to move forward. It was incredibly important to John that I was taken care of after he was gone. Maybe we can both rest easier now.   Today I got an email from an organization that was huge in John’s cancer journey, acknowledging a large donation from his daughter, Liz. My tear

  I want to write about how beautiful, horrible, rewarding, and agonizing it is to watch someone you love slowly die. I want to be so brutally honest, you, the reader will need to take a knee after reading. I want to write this because I want to help someone else who might be here one day. Because nobody told me how to do this. He should have been gone by now. My husband was given a six-month prognosis six months and 15 days ago. The colon cancer had spread and there were too many fronts to fight. John said enough was enough and got his affairs in order, as they say. He retired from his job. We flew to Tucson to visit the new granddaughter. We drove to Oregon to visit my dad. And we got used to our new routine of John home all day, every day. My me time suffered, even though John was trying not to be “underfoot.” We fell into the new steps of our routine quite easily, while we each silently counted the months. Then the pain started. The tumor in the pelvic bone was poking at him. “

 "You mean to tell me there are ten people in more pain than she is in," John told the ER intake nurse when she told him how long the wait would be. I heard him, but couldn't see him. I had my eyes closed, willing the pain in my back to go away. We'd been dating less than two months and I wasn't ready for him to see me at my worst. Next thing I knew, he was helping me to the parking lot and putting me in his car. "We're going to a different hospital." I sat in the waiting room, silently crying, embarrassed to let him see me cry. He stayed with me while I changed into the immodest gown (although he admitted later he was just hoping to see me nekkid). He found a warm blanket when I said I was cold. He waited in the hall outside the CT room and walked beside my gurney back to the ER holding cell.  That was nineteen years ago this month. It was the night I fell in love with him. It was when I knew he'd be my protector, the one who'd have my back,

  When I look back at the early days of John's diagnosis, it seemed like an emotional cake walk compared to what the next 5 years would hold. Of course, it was a shock finding out my husband had stage IV cancer, but it wasn't unexpected. Everyone in his family dies of cancer, and some young, at 50, like his dad and uncle. John warned me when we met that he'd likely die from cancer at 50, so a cancer diagnosis at 55? Yep, kinda figured. I started living my life in 3-month increments. Three months of treatment, three months until the next scan, three months before the next surgery. Can't make plans for a concert six months from now because he might be sick, or worse, gone.  I started cleaning out the house, throwing things away, selling furniture I didn't need or want, all in anticipation of having to move as John got sicker. Material things held no interest for me. What's the point of a new watch or the latest gadget when your spouse is dying? It'd be just on

October, 17, 2016, my husband was diagnosed with stage IV colorectal cancer that had metastasized to surrounding lymph nodes and his liver. Prognosis: six months without treatment. With chemo, maybe 12-18. Too far advanced to make either radiation or surgery viable options. October 17, 2022, my husband had his six-year "cancerversary."  The six-year cancer roller coaster has had peaks and valleys that would put Six Flags to shame.  He was blasted with chemo, which worked better than either his doctor or we could have hoped, which made him a candidate for radiation, which also worked well, which made him a candidate for surgery to resect the tumors in his colon and liver. Side note, after surgery on the liver, the patient comes out of recovery a lovely shade of yellow. He was blasted with more chemo post surgery, while sporting an ostomy bag he'd wear for about 8 months while his insides healed. Three months after the surgery to reconnect his pipes, a routine scan showed a

  My eight-year-old eyes wondered how anything moving that fast could create something so pretty. I watched my grandma’s hands as they made knitting needles and yarn dance. Row by row she built a stocking cap from remnants of yarn leftover from afghans she made for friends, relatives, or county fair entries. When it was done, she showed me how to make a pom-pom for the top. She completed the hat while getting her daily dose of General Hospital. I was too young to care much about who was sleeping with whom on the daily soap opera, but I was intensely interested in my grandmother. Her day was dictated by routine. Washing the breakfast dishes was followed by watching The Galloping Gourmet. After Grandpa returned to work from his lunch break, when she fed him tomato soup and a toasted cheese sandwich, she washed dishes then watched General Hospital while knitting.   Then she started dinner so it would be on the table at precisely 5:30 when Grandpa got home from work. 5:35 was unacceptabl