To experience grief is to have had the chance to love another person. That is the most precious gift.

The Cancer Center

I’ve never actually sat in a cancer treatment room, “on the other side.” Sure, I’ve seen many patients during their treatment but I have never sat there and listened to what was going on around me. Chatter all around. Alarms. Bits and pieces of conversations. Isolated words that make her giggle. The provider advises a patient, “your scan showed some inflammation in your colon.” The gentleman responds, “Would that give me diarrhea?” She looks at me, smiles and giggles and says, “diarrhea!” Awaiting her transfusion we talk of family. She brushes my hair, commenting over and over, “beautiful.” “You know Tony will be here next week to see you. Maybe he will let you brush his curly black locks!” She laughs again and asks, “Where is he now?” I say, “He is having a staycation at the Ritz.” She begins singing right there in the middle of the chaos of the cancer treatment center, “Putting on the Ritz!” We watch a few music videos to pass the time. She almost seems herself if just for a minute.

Freight train

How can you put one foot in front of the other when your entire world is crumbling around you? When the freight train is coming fast and there is nothing you can do to stop it. And you are scared and sad and lost and exhausted. When you can’t fathom your world without the love of your life? You can see it coming. And you need answers to your questions, especially “how long?” “Will the medication work?” “Has her cancer progressed or is this just a side effect of the medicine?” “Which disease will take her first, the evil cancer or the theif that is dementia?” “How do you know when it is time to stop?” You watch every day how each of these afflictions slowly eat away at her. How one disease hastens the other, making her a shell of herself. And you savor those precious moments when you catch a glimpse of her. When a song sparks a memory and you dance sweetly in the living room in the middle of the afternoon. Or first thing in the morning when she recognizes you and cuddles briefly. How does one live through this anticipatory grief?

Remember

You remember ALL of the good times. And some of the hard times. You reflect on the beautiful life you have built together. Tell the stories of times passed. Sometimes she remembers those and smiles. Tell the story of the time when she saved up her waitressing tips from Chi Chi’s to send you on a ski trip with your crazy buddies when you were young and poor. Tell of past adventures mountain biking remebering her looking at you and asking, “You want me to do what?” And she went anyway, falling off once and getting right back up. That strong, smart, witty, beautiful woman. You remember her. And you love her now because you know that tomorrow isn’t promised.

Let yourself grieve

And sometimes you cry. Hard. The ugly kind of crying that screws your face up. Maybe you go out in the middle of the lake and scream at the top of your lungs. You ski and golf, eat good food, drink good wine (in moderation of course), and surround yourself with people who love you both. And you wait, and love. Savoring every minute you can. Even the hard minutes that turn into hours that turn into days and so on. And while she fades and you grieve, the world keeps spinning, tilted on it’s axis at 23.5 degress, every 24 hours. The world just keeps going. How can it keep going? Keeps going just like the constant whir of the IV pumps down at the cancer center. To experience grief is to have had the chance to love another person. That is the most precious gift.

Ice cream

She looks down at her arms and says, “It looks like a rainbow!” 4 sticks it took this time, each carefully covered with different colors of Coban to stop the bleeding. I say, “We should call you Skittles!” She smiles and offers that her favorite ice cream is all of them, “so many different colors,” she says. She loves ice cream. Talks about it often, drawing up the memory of when she was a little girl and her family made homemade ice cream on the farm in the old hand crank ice cream maker. I can picture her standing there in a little pair of coveralls, all pigtails, pink cheeks and smiles while her strong farmer papa turned the crank. Waiting for a taste. She finishes her transfusion and we decide we should definitely have ice cream for lunch. Andy’s it is! And we put on some 70s classic rock, throw our heads back while she remembers and we sing.