As far as I’m concerned, the only thing that happened in the entire world in 2023 is that my husband died.
I faintly remember other events of that year but those blew by like the green pixelated screen at the NY Stock exchange - traveling at nearly the speed of light but also signaling the ups and downs of a changing world order.
I am a high functioning person who is professionally trained and externally wired to show-up as a calm, collected, organized, logical, person in times of crisis. I have honed this practice my entire life and through a successful career, and, when it came to the death of my husband, the external facing me kicked into overdrive.
I think my persona that year embodied the core symptoms of bipolar disorder and schizophrenia – a place where people live in dual realities. Some define this as dissociative disorder where your mind breaks into ‘parts’ and you show up in different states to continue to function. I’m not a shrink, but whatever it is, it served me well and is probably a primitive survival function left over from prehistoric times.
God Bless all the friends and family who saw the very broken me and pretended through it with me, not calling me out. It would have broken me even more. And I was presenting remarkably well, so there was that too.
So, this story begins with deep sadness and loss. It's the place to start because truly, what is the alternative? When you are at the bottom, you either keep going down or you find a way to navigate a new world order and redefine your entire life.
Thinking about that now is completely overwhelming. Thankfully, no one knows how overwhelming it is when you are forced to begin a journey you would never choose, be it a death or divorce or a loss of a loved one.
Auto-pilot kicks in, and each day gets broken down into what feel like phases - sharp corners, long winding roads and the occasional bumps in the road. The proverbial ‘one day at a time’ arrives just when we need it most and days turn into weeks, weeks to months and pretty soon, even years.
The hope and reality is one day you just wake up and you are better. Wouldn’t that be nice?
For me it wasn't a single day but a series of many days where I began to feel different. The gut-punch, pain-throughout-the-body, mind numbing fog slowly lifted. And, while I will never be the same, I am slowly coming back. I am not sure if it's a new and improved version - one would hope that was possible. Maybe, but I sincerely doubt that very much. I just know, I am forever changed.
Before my husband died, he worried about leaving us - our family and me - alone. He would say, “You will be fine." And I would say back to him, “I will not be fine, but I will be ok.” For me that delineation was not a fine point. It meant the difference between thriving and getting by. I was firmly in the 'getting by' camp on this matter.
Barbara Kingsolver, the author of many wonderful books has said, "You don't think you'll live past it and you don't really. The person you were is gone but the half of you that's still alive wakes up one day and takes over again."
Word.
I have now lived past the "first year" of milestones - the illness, decline, last days, death, funerals and memorials, his birthday, mine, Christmas, Thanksgiving and all the Hallmark holidays. As expected, there have been good days, bad days, great days, and a lot of in-between.
The waves of grief and sadness come and go and inevitably have the audacity to show up at really bad and awkward times - like in a grocery store, or at a party, or in your bathroom every damned morning. Ugly crying just becomes part of life's daily unfolding and I do agree that over time all of this changes.
The year of living painfully was spent doing a lot of stuff. A lot of sad stuff, happy stuff, boring stuff, and generally messed-up stuff. I worked hard staying engaged and busy because having gone through other significant losses, the only way to the other side is right through the middle.
I booked a bunch of hours in grief groups and therapy. I ran away and traveled a lot; I was gone about one-third of the entire year. The grief accompanied me on every trip, along with my other baggage. That’s the thing about it – you really can’t run away.
Thanks to the generosity of friends and my husband’s collection, I spent a lot of time consuming a fair amount of wine. Admittedly, it was good wine because after your husband dies, you may as well drink the good stuff.
Probably the most profound insight came via therapy when my therapist facilitated a process called EMDR which essentially involves a conscious but meditative state re-living and reframing trauma. It helped me find new words for what has happened to me. I am forever changed, not damaged. Well, most days at least. The trauma we chose to focus on was the night Bill died.
The night Bill died.
These words are still so foreign. He did, in fact, die, even though many grievers as myself take some months to actually believe their loved one is gone. It's a hard thing to wrap your head around. I watched my father die and while that was immensely awful, this one was categorically worst.
Bill was diagnosed with melanoma in 2010 and underwent surgery to remove a cancerous growth behind his ear. At that time, they also removed 71 lymph nodes and we were told he had clear margins. He was periodically checked - clearly not as diligently or rigorously as was needed - and in March of 2021, after experiencing chest tightness, we began a journey through cancer together. Diagnosis took time, a minor surgery, and lots and lots of tests.
As we waited for the diagnosis, and knowing what was coming was likely going to be bad news, was a time of perverse respite. If it wasn't confirmed, you could have hope because once you know you have cancer, it can't be unknown.
In April, it was confirmed he had lung cancer.
We were shocked. He never smoked. How in the hell could he have lung cancer? He worked in a coal mine in his 20s, but seriously?
The original cancer was behind his ear on his head, so after the lung cancer diagnosis, in an abundance of caution, they imaged his brain to see if it might have metastasized there too.
It had.
This was a fundamental game changer. This was not going to be like our former journey and it was possible he could die from this.
I wanted him to tell the kids as soon as possible. He wanted to avoid that conversation for as long as possible.
I forced his hand and my corporate self-set-up a meeting with the girls.
There is no way to tell your children that you may die soon. So, instead you tell them all the clinical stuff and treatment plan and how we are going to overcome this in a ‘just wanted to let you know and keep you in the loop’ kind of way.’
Probably could have done all of that better, but there are no do-overs in cancer.
The internet is not your friend when you are diagnosed with a disease like this, though it’s where we all go to first. It’s like not being able to look away from a car crash. You peek and click down many layers and read a lot of scary stuff. He didn’t look; I did and carried that for both of us.
Doctors hate patients who do this.
So, after reading lots of scary medical journals, blogs, and web sites I felt more educated and ready to spar with the doctors about the treatment plans, because my medical degree was earned by the Google search engine.
The docs were so kind and spent many, many hours in conversations with me. I’m sure before any appointment with Bill, knowing I was going to be present, both oncologists had to take several deep breaths before facing a recovering journalist who essentially quizzed them on treatment options, medication outcomes and side effects.
Looking back now, we knew the outcome of this. We just couldn’t acknowledge it or face it because why would you give up before you even attempt to run up the hill? Denial in this case is super helpful and provides a buffer to cope through the unimaginable. It’s that prehistoric survival mechanism. And why not hope? Sometimes it turns out well.
I had the opportunity to retire from a successful career three months after his diagnosis so I could be there for him during treatment. Essentially, I retired to cancer.
And once I had free time away from a very demanding job, we both focused on treatment and experiences. A lot of great sex was had. We enjoyed many trips and excursions in-between treatments while horrible side effects emerged daily.
We took an epic trip to Ireland and Scotland where Bill played his last round of golf at the venerable Old Course at St. Andrews, the year Great Britain was commemorating the 150th British Open.
All the kids accompanied us and we have private and precious memories and experiences each of us will always treasure.
By the fall of 2022, Bill was in visible decline. It seemed to happen fast, but looking back now, he had been in a progressive decline for several months. None of us wanted to see or accept it. In fact, when I finally asked the doctor where we were at this point, we were told that Bill probably had six months, maybe a year left.
He looked at me and said, ‘I thought I had more time” and then went out to the back yard to trim bushes because that was where he worked out everything. I was married to Mr. Green Jeans.
He died three months later.
This news was going to require another heartbreaking call to the kids. And true to form, Bill avoided it so that I had to privately call them and share the essential news. I don’t think he ever really did tell them directly. We all just came to know.
I wanted and needed their support and help and didn’t want them to miss any of the last days with their father. I sometimes wonder if he was in the camp of maybe if we don’t discuss this, it will go away. This was like our marriage. I always dove in the deep end and flailed around while he calmly floated and watched me spin.
I remember calling his daughter Sarah, and she was shocked by this news. He had been telling her he was getting better. She had just been through a significant loss of her former mother-in-law to cancer and this was surely unimaginable to her, losing her dad. She wanted to know when he was coming to Austin to help her plant her garden and see her new home.
To make that year even more special, I was recovering from my first-ever surgery to fix what kept being described to me as a "massive tear,” in my rotator cuff. I finally told them to stop saying that to me as it was wholly unhelpful and exasperating my generalized anxiety.
By November that year Bill could no longer walk and I could no longer assist him. In fact, I tore the other shoulder and had a complete breakdown with my orthopedic surgeon at a surgical follow-up appointment who just held me in his arms in his office sobbing and sent me home with a fresh box of Kleenex.
To face the final days.
I was scheduled to take a 'girls' trip to New York in early December. In a parking lot after leaving physical therapy, I reluctantly called my friends to say that I was so, so sorry but needed to back out of the trip.
Bill said, go, “I'll get by. Becca can come over.” I said no, and cancelled it telling him this was no longer up for discussion.
On the Monday when I should have been in New York, I enrolled Bill in hospice.
Once you go into hospice, you no longer receive treatment for the originating disease.
I was essentially giving up.
When he was assessed by hospice, I asked the PA in my house at the time, so what are we looking at here? I have four kids - one is living in Europe; one is in Texas and two are here.
She said, bring them home now.
All the blood left my brain; I asked her the second scariest question, "How long do we have?" After the typical evasion, she said three-to-four weeks: maybe less, maybe more. Her prediction was dead-on, no pun intended.
Gut punch. I can barely breathe but I stand there and nod and thank her so much for her help. They gave us a brochure that outlines ‘what to expect as someone dies.’ I couldn’t read it. Becca, Bill’s daughter did.
I hired help to augment the hospice care and move Bill from the bed to the chair and back. Within a few days, this was our new normal. Hospice came three days a week to bathe him and assess how he was doing.
It was Christmas time. I got a tree, managed to put it up and pretended normal. Sarah, Bill's oldest daughter, came out and spent two weeks with us. Jon, my youngest son from my first marriage, came home from Istanbul, Turkey where he was living. Becca, Bill's younger daughter essentially moved into our home with her dog, though Bill never knew the dog was here. Christopher, my oldest son has Schizo-affective disorder and was nearby but the last thing any of us needed was for Chris to go off the rails again, so we kept him at a distance during this time.
Bill rallied in December and, while bed-bound, was lively and alert and made us all hope that he could recover to a point to resume treatment.
There was so much love, kindness, humor and sadness all rolled up in a shit sandwich in December that year.
Each night the kids and I would all lay on our King-sized bed, next to him in a hospital bed and watch TV together and laugh.
It was the most intimate, precious time I think I will ever spend with my family.
On the last Christmas morning we spent together, with the support and help from his daughters, he re-proposed to me and asked me to renew our marriage vows.
In the card he gave me, he wrote:
“Thank you for the last 23 years of being my wife/best friend and helping raise our “Brady Bunch.” I will meet you under the arch when we are ready to renew our vows next week…open your present!”
He presented me with an infinity ring that Becca and her friends chose, and the girls paid to have the ring engraved with Love Always.
It was, and probably will be, the most romantic gesture of my life. My husband loved me so much that he remarried me nine days before he died.
On December 28, in our back yard, under a jasmine-loaded arch planted many years ago, we renewed our marriage vows.
My son officiated the ceremony and escorted me out to Bill who was in a wheelchair, waiting for me. And, in the presence of our original maid of honor (who still fit in her dress from my wedding day 23 years prior), my flower girl who was now 29 years old, and other best friends and his caregiver, we recommitted to each other.
With tears streaming down his face, he said:
“There are three words that are stronger than I love you. 23 years ago, I stood in front of you to say, I choose you. Today, I stand in front of you to remind you that each day, and every day, I choose you over all others. I choose to love you forever.”
And with a full heart and streaming tears, I responded:
“It was so many years ago that we pledged for the very first time to love and cherish each other forever. And, here today, in front of our family and dearest friends, I would like to say that I am still in love as before.
I am grateful for our life, our family, our love and our experiences. You have taught me to not take myself too seriously, laugh at stupid jokes, be silly, and how to do yard work.
We have shared a lot in the 25 years together; family and friends have been the most important thing to both of us, and I treasure our life and the people here today.
I will love you forever; whatever happens.
You have asked me; will you love me for the rest of my life? My answer is, no, I will love you for the rest of mine.”
I will remember that day as the day I fell in love all over again to a man who gave me all he had until the end of his days.
It is the basis of how I am able to move forward and even contemplate love again. Our love was strong and deep enough to hold people up even at the end of our days. And, for me, knowing this means it’s OK to love again because love survives - even if people don’t.
By the end of that week, Sarah headed back to Texas. The Texas FMLA laws are designed to protect the employer and punish the worker. She needed to get back to work.
He was doing so well.
On New Year's Eve, at 8:30 p.m. while Becca and I were getting our dinner ready in the kitchen, I heard his familiar - Clllllaaaairrrre. We rushed into the bedroom and he said, it's happening now, and was having a TIA (small stroke). I told him it is not and to breathe. He was 100 percent right and I was totally in denial.
I called the hospice nurse to come and he arrived at around midnight. He essentially told us that night that the end could come soon - any time - likely not more than a week.
I thanked him and learned how to give Bill morphine.
Becca and I were wrecked. I put my head on the kitchen counter and cried. All I could think is I'm too young for this and I can't do this.
I called Sarah and told her she needed to come back. We were out of time. Jon was here and we all held vigil at his bed for the next five days while he died.
Sarah arrived back to California late in the evening the night before he died. Jon picked her up at the airport and Becca and I gave her space to talk to her unconscious father one last time.
His breathing became very labored and he was struggling. We all told him how much we loved him, thanked him for everything and told him to release.
He left us at 12:40 a.m. on January 6.
He looked beautiful.
And honestly, by then it was a relief.
There are no words to describe how it feels to watch your husband die. I don’t even know if I really felt it.
Hospice came, pronounced him dead, and then the mortuary came and he left our home for the last time at 4 a.m. I stood on the driveway as they loaded his body into the hearse and wept, and tried to breathe.
I watched the tail lights of the vehicle drive down our street, turn right and he was gone.
I came inside my house to my broken children, forever changed. I worked hard to keep myself together and model strength for our family. I’m fairly sure I was in full-on shock and had left my body.
There are times when I wonder what might have been different for me had I surrendered and just stopped functioning. Maybe I did do that because it’s all very foggy, but I do know that things got done and life moved forward.
None of my strength was by choice; it was necessity. People often tell me I'm brave. Most days I'm scared to death and freely admit that. But I’m told I act brave even if I’m scared, and I guess that is how I cope. Fake it until you make it or something like that.
It was 4 a.m. and no one could sleep. I think sleep would have felt like death so we drank wine and talked about Bill until 6:30 a.m. when we finally put our bodies in bed. For the first time, I walked into an empty bedroom.
I don't remember telling my friends Karen and Gee he died that night but I must have because both of them arrived at my house around Noon, along with the durable medical equipment vendor who took the hospital bed and oxygen out of our home. Bureaucracy marches on, even at death.
That night began my journey alone, to figure out how to move ahead without the love of my life and find a way to navigate a new identity – widowhood – without a partner who I adored and who I thought I would grow old with and sail into the mystic together.
It has been said, grief is the price of love. I guess so. I prefer to not have paid that price for his love and would just as soon not, thank you, very much.
But the love was amazing, and so because of that I will concede that the price was worth it. Because when you have been truly loved, you know that you can go on alone and carry that with you to the next place, wherever it may be. It means I will know it when, and if, it shows up again.
There is nothing more important in my life now but love - love for my friends, family and all of the messed-up people in this world. I’m not talking about lust or romantic love, though that would sure be nice to have again. I’m talking about the kind of love that sustains through the mid-life doldrums and duties of child rearing, all the way to cancer and hospice and the worst imaginable thing that could happen to a couple in love, death. I want to carry that love deep in my psyche and embody it because there really is nothing more important in this life to me now.
It takes a lot of time to heal and recover, and those ahead of me on this path say that you never really do. Well OK. I do believe though that with this love I have in me that I may be able to find love again. If it shows up, I know it will be different for sure. I am different.
So, Bill, while I am not yet fine, I am OK. Some moments are fine babe, though they would be so much finer with you here. I have created a new life without you and am doing the best I can every day to move forward. It’s still wobbly. It’s often uncomfortable at times, but I have learned to dance in the kitchen by myself like no one’s watching and feel completely free and happy.
I thank you for that and so much more.