WIDOW FOR A WEEK

It is one week since my husband of twenty years died.  I am not in my right mind.  When I stumbled into the funeral place a few days ago to finalize the paperwork for his cremation, I kept making mistakes. The woman I was working with called it “widow’s brain.”

 

I looked at her blankly.  Am I really a widow?  

 

I suppose I am. But I’m not ready to claim the appellation. Bill's passing doesn’t feel real. I keep expecting to see him reading in his chair.  He was always reading.  Besides, I picture a widow as an old lady, wearing a black veil. Sure, maybe the first part of that description fits, but I am not wearing a veil, either real or figurative. 

 

In truth, I don’t know much about being a widow yet, so other than reporting that I am exhausted and heartbroken, I am not ready to write about it. If widowhood were a garment, it would be lying lightly across my back; I am hesitating to pull it over my shoulders.  

 

I will, therefore, save the discussion of widowhood for a future post, and will today report on the experience of accompanying Bill during his final weeks and days.** This will not be eloquent, because, you know, widow’s brain.

 

The back story: 

 

Bill was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer in October of 2022.  We were told there was no cure, but treatment could buy him time.  He tolerated chemo pretty well, apart from fatigue, and eventually enjoyed a few months of remission, during which chemo was paused, and we enjoyed relative normalcy. Last November, a scan showed that the cancer was active again. Two different kinds of chemo were unsuccessful, and maybe four months ago, his fatigue and weakness began to increase dramatically, and a month ago, he took an even more rapid downturn.  

 

He started home hospice on May 17, and his sons and my daughters rallied around us.  The girls came over to support me whenever they were able leave their very young children. They brought food and called me every day.  

 

Those who followed Bill’s Caring Bridge site know that his out-of-state son, Andrew, flew in with his son, Joe, just days before Joe’s wedding. They brought love and attention and memories while Bill was still able to sit up and interact with them.  He was surprised and delighted by their visit.

 

Bill’s local sons, Doug and Marty, saw us through. They took turns spending the night with us, until the final few days, when they both stayed with us. They were kindness and patience itself with their father, and they kept me afloat until Bill’s passing on June 5.  

 

Some random observations: 

Bill’s final days were peaceful.  He faced his death with grace and acceptance.  He expressed gratitude for family and friends and the extra time his treatment brought him.  

 

I was warned by people in my caregiver support group that some friends and family members might disappear, unable to tolerate closeness to illness and death.  No one abandoned us.  Friends called and came by, brought us food, sat with me, walked with me.  One friend even cancelled a kayaking trip in order to be near at hand. Bill’s two brothers flew in from Indiana a week before he passed. His two sisters sent him lovely voice messages. So many people surrounded us with love. (After Bill died, Doug told me that Bill, while still alert, had given him the phone numbers of my closest friends, and asked him to make sure that they would surround me with love. I was sure my friends wouldn’t need any prompting, and I was right. I was deeply touched by Bill’s concern for my well-being, even as he was leaving this life.)

 

Bill’s closing days were marked by both tears and laughter.  The sadness needs no explanation, but I didn’t expect the laughter.  Here are some examples:

 

Soon after Bill went on hospice, my daughter Mara asked him what – if he were able to come back to comfort us – he would appear as. I imagine she thought he might say a bird.  Instead, my Indianapolis-500-loving husband thought for a minute and said,  “A race car.”  

 

One day, while I was upstairs with Bill, a neighbor came over with her six-year-old daughter to bring us some flowers.  Bill’s son Marty answered the door, and the child looked at him, then said to her mother, “Is that her new husband?”

 

Two days before he died, when Bill was no longer speaking and not reacting to touch, my daughter Anne stood crying at his bedside, saying her farewells.  Tears were interrupted by laughter when she told Bill that Mara wanted to apologize to him for being a shithead teenager when he and I were first married. We laughed and Bill smiled.  I think that was his last obvious reaction to any words.

 

Being with Bill during his final days, I experienced both the sacred and the mundane.  I sat with him.  I lay in the hospital bed with him and whispered in his ear.  I played music for him.  His sons also talked to him and played music for him.  We tended to him. We accompanied him as far as we could.

 

There was sadness and overwhelm and punchiness from sleep deprivation.  And there was this:  Laundry had to be done.  Bills still had to be paid. The cat box wasn’t going to clean itself.  The garden had to be watered.  

Some things that happened while Bill was on hospice:  Our 2014 Prius refused to start.  A spider bit me, causing my ankle to swell up like a balloon. One of our cats puked. Twice.  And although my ankle hurt and $4500 for the car repair was momentarily startling, I had more pressing things worry about. I think it's called perspective.

 

The world does not stop for illness or hospice or death. I suppose it will ever be so. 

 

I am sad and I am grateful.  I am grateful for Bill. I am grateful that he chose me to make a life with. I am grateful that he didn’t suffer.  I am grateful for those who surrounded us, and are surrounding me, with love. 

Finally, words of wisdom from my 3-year-old granddaughter Frankie.  When her mother, my Anne, explained to Frankie and her sister that Bill was dying and would not be coming back, Frankie announced, "I'm going to be really sad and I'm going to be really mad."

And that sums up my feelings exactly.

Flowers by Frankie

** If you are wondering at my sitting down to write so soon, writing is how I process my experiences and emotions.  It is solace and catharsis. I can write and cry at the same time.