Moving On With Life…

Writing is a discipline, something that one practices with (hopefully) regular application; however, there are times when the challenges of everyday life are so great that it interrupts the flow of ideas and words for a length of time.

I have been going through one of these times.

It began back in the fall of 2017. A difficult diagnosis for my husband: a limited time and limited options for treatment.

We talked. We cried. We made plans with the most hopeful of outcomes in mind, adding in contingencies for every variation. Finances, travel, lifestyle and family were the main topics. He took a leave from his work. He started a treatment.

The treatment only worked for a little while, and then it stopped. But we were hopeful–it was only the first attempt. So, he started another treatment which also worked for a little while, and then it too stopped. Again, we were optimistic and he tried something else. A pattern emerged.

We took a break and went on a family holiday. It had been a while since all three of us had gone away together. Italy seemed like the best place. I’m thankful that we were able to go, and have many happy memories of that time.

While the trip filled me with inspiration from art, architecture and music, when I returned, there were still no words. I could see how the treatments were affecting my husband. His optimistic outlook started to erode.

I continued to work at my job, taking time off to attend medical appointments. Fortunately, or perhaps, unfortunately, I worked at a hospice, the very kind of place where people in our position might turn to for help and support.

My co-workers and the volunteers I worked with were awesome. Hugs and offers of help, even a blank pass to skip out if ever I needed to, were all made available to me. My manager suggested I could take time off at any point and they would pick up the slack. No pressure.
At first, I found I needed work then to keep that gloss of normalcy. It was sometimes difficult, but I received a lot of help during that time and perhaps, my work wasn’t quite as stellar as usual either, but it was acceptable. If I hadn’t received so much help, I would have left much earlier than I did.

During this period I would occasionally sit down and try to write, but I got less and less accomplished and became more and more frustrated until I stopped trying.

There came a point, though, when the emotional challenges at home overwhelmed me, and the time needed to look after my declining patient grew. It happened gradually and unevenly, it wasn’t always clear things were going downhill, because sometimes things would get better again. We made trip after trip to the emergency room, downtown, rather than to the local one, spending weeks in the hospital at a time. I realized I had to leave work because I was spending more and more time away and the juggling was causing me too much stress. I could see the end up ahead, though, as much as I tried to avoid it. For my husband’s sake, I chose not to articulate it to him. Instead, I kept up the hopeful narrative which he had established to keep his spirits up. He was so brave and showed so much courage all along. I don’t now how he found the strength to get up everyday and smile, but it made things easier for me that he did.

Then there was our daughter. How do you tell a young adult that the one constant in life, one of her parents, was not going to be around much longer? We tried to keep up that positive narrative. We all knew the real score, but hoping it wouldn’t come so fast was helpful. It might have looked delusional from the outside, but its part of the way many people cope under the circumstances.

At this point, all of my focus was on caring for and keeping my husband company for as long as he was with us. I didn’t leave too much energy for myself. I would be able to do things later…after.

In the end, it happened so fast. On New Year’s eve he was admitted to the hospital, followed by a week at home, then another two weeks back in the hospital. He would stop eating, then start up again after week. Walking became harder. I thought it was just another of those episodes, but this time he was getting weaker.

We talked about where he needed to be. I visited palliative care units and hospices, and knew right away when I walked into one hospice that he would be happiest there. It felt right. The place was a renovated old chapel with some of the original wooden arches and stained glass. The staff and volunteers were amazing. Not only did they take great care of him, they also took care of the rest of us. By this time, my mother-in-law had joined us, and my daughter was getting ready to leave for University. We talked about what to do. The staff noted a rapid decline in my husband’s abilities, and shared their concerns. I took note and prepared.

His eyes had remained half opened as he slept. His gaze looked inward. He was not connecting with us anymore. In the end, he went so quietly, we didn’t even realize it until the staff came in to check on him and told us. He had just stopped breathing while we talked to him and listened to music.

The feeling of relief that it was all over and this part of my life was complete was enormous. I wanted to get back to writing, but you have no idea how much there is to do after someone passes. The tasks are relentless. I have spent half days at the bank, hours filling out forms for claims, going through my husband’s files, searching for missing items I needed to produce for various authorities, changing the name on accounts, homes, cars, planning a memorial. Talking to friends and writing to them as well.

People were good to me all along, and especially afterwards. I had many offers of help and many people brought me food and drink and everyone had hugs for me. Sometimes it surprised me so much that I wondered how I had come to deserve all of this, but I was reminded how often I came through for others. It was simply my turn now.

The stories people told overwhelmed me. I had lived day to day with a man for almost thirty years, but I realized I only ever saw whatever qualities he displayed at those moments I shared with him. People came to tell me all about him, summarizing his life in the most positive way. I learned things I hadn’t known. How he had mentored younger co-workers, for example. It seemed consistent with the man I knew. I was sad, though, realizing how little time I had spent thinking about him as a whole. It felt like a disservice. Yet I had done so much for him. I had defended his needs with hospital staff, talked to his doctors to fill them in on all of the details he had forgotten. I managed his medications to be sure he would remember when his mind wandered evermore. I had given up most of my time to ensure he was comfortable and cared for, knowing it wouldn’t be for forever.

And now he’s gone. The house seems too quiet, too tidy–almost lifeless now. The calls have slowed down. I am going about my life now, picking up the pieces, taking back my schedule, reading more. No writing yet, though. Until now.

There is light now, and I can see there will be more. It will sustain me and help me find my words. These are the first of many words to come. Words of survival, triumph over adversity, love, passion, and anger. I hope you are ready for them. Eventually, there will even be a novel. I promise. Maybe even two.