Memories

Six years ago, but today it feels like yesterday, I was exhausted and numb while purposely organizing and packing for an urgent journey – and I use that word specifically – to a California academic medical center for an Awake Craniotomy to remove the largest tumor in my husband’s brain. A few days before, on January 18^th, 2019, my husband had been diagnosed with Stage IV Renal Cell Carcinoma. The following 13 months were a full-on battle with this horrid disease. My reality on January 18^th, 2019, was as sudden and numbing as being tossed off a ship at night into the cold and dark of a turbulent ocean while the ship sailed away.

Peter passed away on March 1^st, 2020. I was 57 years old, and my husband was 59. There are times when I still cannot wrap my head around what we heard from the ER doctor on January 18^th, 2019. While Peter was being transported out of the ER to the oncology floor, a profoundly caring ER nurse paused me and said, “spend as much time together as you can.” With my head and heart reeling, I responded with, “is it really that bad?”. She looked at me with such kindness, touched my arm, and nodded.

I still didn’t understand. Not then and not the next morning after sleeping on a cot beside Peter in his room on the hospital’s oncology floor. I didn’t understand at home while preparing for the trip to the academic medical center for Peter’s Awake Craniotomy. Nor after we got home. I did not understand. Not even now, and my husband has passed.

I can tell you I took the ER nurse’s comment to heart. There were only eight days when I was not beside Peter. For the rest of the roughly 417 days, his and my time were intertwined completely. I have no regrets, and I would spend each of those 417 days beside him again. This choice is what love does.

What I would change, however, is how I cared for and thought of myself. Because of this, I wrote my book for caregivers You’re Not Alone: A Caregiver’s Story and Guide Through the Loneliness, Overwhelm, and Practicalities. (Link to book on Amazon here.) I hope I can touch another caregiver and help in some small way to keep their pot from being completely emptied.

A note: These last four paragraphs, with some updated edits, were copied from You’re Not Alone because they continue to accurately reflect what I feel today. The photo is a selfie taken 2 months after Peter’s brain surgery.

Memories.

You will frequently read or hear me state that life is a gift. And I sincerely and wholeheartedly want to impress on you that it is. You have today. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. Because of what I experienced, I will routinely encourage you to take time every day to do something for yourself that makes you smile and brings you joy. To seek out a loved one and spend time with them – give them a hug (and hold a little longer and tighter) or a phone call. Practice random acts of kindness. Because life is truly a gift, live and share it every day.

You have today. Tomorrow is not guaranteed.

In another blog, I will share my thoughts on what I call “someday-itis.” But not today.

Today, I thank you for allowing me into your day and letting me share my memories. This compassionate connection helps ease some of the heartache of the resurgence of grief and loss that memories inevitably activate on anniversary dates.

My friend, I hope you reach out to those in your life and find comfort in sharing memories. But more, may you live today and make new and joyful ones 💙