To the Grieving Spouse

Letters to my patients, day 8

Photo by Karsten Winegeart on Unsplash

It’s as if she had been in your life from the beginning of time — a presence, a light, a peace.

You fell fast, that first day of college when she breezed into the classroom. Her eyes glimmered as she flopped down beside you, clearly pleased she had made it just in time.

And that was it. You were inseparable.

For the next 16 years she continued to light up your days. Morning coffee tasted better together, dinner was actually fun to cook, coming home to her after work was the best part of the day. You would lay on your backs atop the thin, faded rug which did a terrible job of cushioning the hardwood floor of your first apartment. Yet it still provided the best place to debrief the day, letting go of anything outside of the two of you. You cultivated a world apart, with two souls immersed in the deepest friendship. This would carry you into adulthood, marriage, parenthood, moving between communities, growing a family, creating a life together. Without realizing it, you had more than you could have ever dreamed. She was yours, and you would do anything for her.

But now, there is nothing left for you to do.

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You were there the day she was diagnosed, a strong presence despite the immediate collapse of your world as soon as they said the word cancer. What started as a hopeful journey turned into 3 years of treatment and then, there were no more options. The tumor was growing. Your wife always took things in stride, facing those words head-on and nodding with understanding that death was near. It had been near for 3 years, but it was now within arms reach.

Oh, how difficult it is to care for a dying spouse while simultaneously grieving the inevitable loss of their life.

For 3 years you have been grieving the loss of the life you had together. Your focus shifted from dreams to the present — scans and treatments, mitigating side effects, shouldering more home responsibilities, keeping the kids involved in activities, relaying updates to family, cooking more than you cared to, caregiving.

Now you realize that you’ve put off thinking about the future without her. You don’t think it’s a future that could possibly be worth living in.

And you are right. Life without the person you love most is not a future anyone looks forward to. While there may be other reasons to carry on, no person or thing will ever be able to replace the love you are saying goodbye to.

It is natural to mourn this loss.

To mourn the loss of the mother of your children.

To mourn the loss of the person who makes you genuinely laugh more than anyone else can.

To mourn the loss of a person who can read your thoughts in just a glance.

To mourn the loss of the one person who saw your insecurities and loved you still.

To mourn the loss of a husband who raised your children to be so much like him that your heart will ache when you cheer them on at a cross-country race, because they run exactly like he did.

To mourn the loss of someone who knows the balance between pushing you to be your best and allowing you the space to just be.

To mourn the loss of the person you ran almost every thought by.

To mourn the loss of that one person who meant the world to you, who was your world.

But isn’t a person that wonderful worth the initial devastation at their absence, worth all the tears? Tears that fall in a solemn celebration of a love so deep that it hurts this much to let it go.

Your journey through grief will be just that — a process that ebbs and flows. Some days will be better than others. And if you allow it, healing will eventually open your eyes to see that life is, indeed, worth living. But in the midst of the end, allow yourself to honor who you had, that you loved and were loved in the deepest sense of the word.

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When you start missing your spouse before they are even gone, take what you need:

How grateful I am to have experienced a love like that.

I will tell him, again today, how much I love doing life together.

I can mourn her absence even while she is still here— it’s okay for her to see that I will miss her.

I did my best to care for him, and that was enough.

There are reasons to continue on, to keep going.

I will take it one day at a time.

I have people who want to support me, there are others who love me too.

And when the time is right, I will open my heart to healing.

Thank you for being here,

Deep grief sometimes is almost like a specific location, a coordinate on a map of time. When you are standing in that forest of sorrow, you cannot imagine that you could ever find your way to a better place. But if someone can assure you that they themselves have stood in that same place, and now have moved on, sometimes this will bring hope. — Elizabeth Gilbert (Thank you to

Kristina Adams Waldorf, MD

for sharing this quote)

Read from others sharing their journey

Kristina Adams Waldorf, MD

After He Said Cancer: How It Began…

Bess Stillman

Everything Is An Emergency: How to let go

tenterhooks

he had stage 4 cancer, we fell in love anyway

Anne

The Future Widow: A Difficult Day and a Better Tomorrow

Strong Shoulders: The Caregiver Burden

This is part of a 31-day series of letters to my patients — those undergoing a work-up, diagnosis, or treatment for cancer. Topics are also focused on those caregiving and supporting individuals affected by cancer. This is not an easy journey, but you do not have to do it alone.

This is not intended to be medical advice — please consult your healthcare team for individual medical expertise.

Let me know what topics you hope to see this month! I have many of the days filled, but not all of them. I would love to hear your thoughts, experiences, or questions.