Going from something to nothing overnight is a challenge I never thought I’d face so soon. In an instant, I went from a husband and co-parent to one navigating life as a single. Even though writing is a single’s hobby, I have struggled to find purpose and meaning in my newfound solitude. Even finishing this thought seems arbitrary and mundane. The days seem so much longer with the seconds and minutes felt in a new way.
In her TEDx Talk(s), “When Someone You Love Dies, There Is No Such Thing as Moving On,” Kelley Lynn suggests that time after the death of a loved one (in her case, her husband) can become one of deep seclusion mainly because as a country, we don’t handle death/loss well collectively. I have personally gone through the separation she mentioned. It’s not that I started to not like people as much as not knowing how to relate to people without the deep sadness of having survived the death of my person.
Where Lynn’s husband died in the blink of an eye with no warning due to a heart attack, I bore witness to the separation of my bride over the course of 4 years. There were signs that things weren’t right at the beginning of that 4-year adventure, but it wasn’t known what was happening until she returned one day from deep-sea fishing. She sent me a picture of the fish she caught, but I was more impressed by the size of the goiter in her neck. She was beaming holding the fish, but all I could ask was, “What is going on with your neck???” Concerned is an understatement of what I was feeling.
“It’s like I can see in hyper color” was her response. “They asked me to come in this morning instead of going out on the boat when I called.”
“Who is she?” I asked, incredibly blindsided by what the picture she sent displayed. She’d called the hospital to see if there was something she needed to do before going about her “normal day.” Instead of following the instructions given, she chose to go forward with the fishing charter booked as part of our trip to Florida that time around.
Instead of us going about the rest of our day as if it was only time to celebrate her catch, we ended up in a southwest Florida hospital, with our two sons in tow. I would have stayed with her if I had known it was the beginning of our life of grieving the end of things. There was a level of sadness watching the woman I love confined to a bed while the rest of us were free to run around the sunny landscape of Naples/Marco Island. However, I didn’t feel much like exploring the landscape on any level.
It was incredibly difficult to witness the beginnings of what would lead to the end of our time together on this earth. It was the first time I’d felt the fear of a possible life without her, but I also didn’t know what we were dealing with at that point. Neither of us did. And, reliving the moments of utter confusion is even more painful than when an unknown doctor came into my bride’s hospital room asking one question.
“Have you ever heard of Multiple Myeloma?” And with that, the doctor disappeared, never to be seen again. Being the self-diagnoser that Julie was, she immediately began searching out answers to “What is Multiple Myeloma?” The results were far less than encouraging. In fact, the results with each click on her search brought her deeper into the confusion initiated by the phantom doctor.
Why would this unknown doctor who had never been in her room surprise her with that specific of a question? Why was Julie always being given hard news when she was alone? She actually discovered that it was a cancer diagnosis a couple of months after returning home from our trip to Florida that summer. Because we were quite some time into the pandemic, I wasn’t allowed to join her for her doctor’s appointment at the Charles and Mimi Osborn Cancer Center. All I could do was sit in the van waiting for her to return to me.
When she returned, the tears were streaming. The emptiness in the pit of my stomach sank to a new low. Dark days had officially been pronounced over our family. “It’s cancer…” She informed me between sobs of disappointment. She had to go through a first and second opinion that cancer would be making its way into our future. Only, this type of cancer wasn’t the kind that could be removed. It was basically a death sentence with no expiration date.
How does anyone live a life with an anticipation that death is going to come in a very painful way, and continue to live their best life? It was like living with a time bomb we couldn’t hear ticking, but knew was there. A bomb that could go off at any moment undetected. Because the way multiple myeloma progressed, there was very little that could be done as the pain appeared and intensified in her body.
Helplessness became a new normal because there was nothing that could be done when the disease began to really take off. When living in a marriage that was already strained with connection due to our individual traumas we’d never addressed is assaulted by a hidden menace known as cancer, the struggle became even more intense. Loving Julie was never an issue for me. I was put here to serve. She was the recipient of my most intense service because she was my bride, and the mother of our two sons.
The struggle became even more of a challenge as the disease began making itself known. What she did not do was find a way to ignore the truth of our diagnosis. She searched out as much information about the disease as she could. She joined online support groups. She dug for questions to ask the new doctors when the care plan was created for her remaining time. Time which no one knew how much was left. She held on to hope until the final update from the doctor when he said, “We have come to the end of all treatment plans. There’s nothing more we can do.”
She never really grieved alone. She never chose solitude to live out her final days. She wanted to be surrounded by the people she loved, but never expressed any hurt when the ones she wanted the most chose to be elsewhere. We all had lives to live. We who remain still have lives to live. We all get to wake up daily and choose how we want to live those lives out. Whether to their fullest potential or in the darkness of depression due to death.
My disconnect with the world around me is that I don’t feel as though I fit in because of my profound sadness. It’s hard for me to talk about my bride because of how deeply I loved her. The grief I now live with daily is paralyzing most days. While I have lived a life of loss on various levels, losing someone I love has been the most daunting task I have had to face. Being alone in this task seems to be the best space for me. I haven’t done well with suggestions on how to overcome my sorrow, because the sorrow is deeply personal.
As I work my way through resources on grieving and healing, one of the repeat thoughts I come across is that while grief is very personal, it is very universal. We have all suffered loss to varying degrees. My loss is no more powerful than anyone else’s. The human condition will bring everyone to this place in life. We all hope that it comes after long lives lived fully with great joy. Yet, there is no preparation for when the unthinkable does finally happen.
My bride was diagnosed in the summer of 2021, and we were given 3 more years together. The level of disbelief that she would be gone was very high. We never really prepared for the day that came. I still struggle with the truth that that day has come and gone. I struggle to have hope that the overwhelming pain in my soul will calm down as time moves along. I struggle to share what I’m feeling with the closest of my people because inevitably we all go to the same place…
Death.
We all die. Death is batting 100% since the beginning of time. That doesn’t make living in the aftermath of dying with cancer any easier. Some days are incredibly difficult. Some days are mediocre at best. It’s like living in the movie Groundhog Day with Bill Murray, except I have a hard time finding the joy and humor. But, it’s only been almost one year since she died. I am thankful that she didn’t die by herself in a hospital bed in a hospital she despised (due to a history of trauma surrounding University Hospital downtown). I am thankful she had such loving support from those who made it a priority to be with her at every stage of her battle.
I am thankful that she didn’t have to battle in pain until she died. The medications she was provided at the end made things a lot easier to tolerate. Whereas, when it was just her and me at our home battling with a cornucopia of medication mixtures that eventually stopped working, the helplessness was intense. The trauma of watching someone I deeply loved slowly die, day by day, was excruciating. The pain she was living with was excruciating. The anticipatory grief of having to live a life I would have never chosen as a widower was excruciating.
Life was excruciating with cancer in it. Life is excruciating without my bride in it as well. And, that is why a life of solitude is what I have chosen for now.
I went to grief groups and felt even worse for the people still living the nightmare of living without their person. Going into environments with as little hope as I have seems unfair to the people I am going to spend time with. So, I choose to spend time with myself. I choose to write instead of talk because pouring my soul out on these pages helps me far more than expressing myself verbally.
I am able to express anger here and explain myself. I am able to take breaks when the grief becomes too heavy. I am able to be who I want to be behind closed doors without the possibility of being censored. America hasn’t done itself any services by ignoring the pain of death and loss. America hasn’t done itself any services by ignoring the pain of separation. America hasn’t done itself any services by not preparing its people for what will come into everyone’s life.
I must do myself the service of providing the space to be who I am without her. To become who I am able to become without her. I must pick up the pieces of a life shattered multiple times due to the vehicle of grieving.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get to a place where I see the purpose in a death so young to a woman who was just getting started with her personal plan for life. I don’t know when I’ll ever be able to sit in a room of people and not miss the one voice that was eager to teach and expand her reach. I don’t know how to live a life that isn’t kept to myself.
All that I can do is think about her and wonder why the tears hurt so much.
Why does having an open heart for healing hurt so much?
Why are the days and nights all the same now?
Will I ever be able to make something out of this nothing that I wake up to every day?
When will I be able to get back into living a life of productive anticipation of the good things that are promised from a faithful God?
As I mourn and grieve the loss of something beautiful…someone beautiful…I grow closer to the idea that I must do this on my own. In the lonesome valley, we have to go by ourselves to obtain that which would have never been possible had the tragedy not happened. Grieving in solitude is one of the greatest gifts I could give to myself right now, because now is not the time to censor what is happening to, through, and for me.