I am 51. My husband, Bernard, turned 57 on December 9th of last year. He was fighting throat cancer- was diagnosed in late September. He had a very positive prognosis... One doctor even said.... "If you must have cancer, this is the cancer to have.... It responds very well to treatment." Treatment was a bitch, complete with a tracheotomy, feeding tube, chemo therapy and radiation. He couldn't keep anything down and lost 50 lbs in the six weeks of treatment. We begged the doctors for hospitalization at least twice- and they would switch anti-nausea medications and send us home. Vomiting is always a horrible thing, but add a trachea, and you increase the level of horror to an almost unbearable level. But, champ that he is, he endured six weeks of almost daily battles of vomiting and coughing up bloody sputum.
On December 24th, Christmas Eve, Bernie took his last treatment. The battle was over. He had won. He was a survivor. We celebrated as best we could, with his health still so fragile.
On Tuesday, December 29th, Bernie woke up at 7:13 AM. He spent several minutes clearing his throat and then he went to the bathroom. I fell back to sleep. When he came back from the bathroom he fell hard onto the bed and hit his head on the headboard or the dresser- I am not sure which- my back was turned toward him. Hearing the sound, feeling him fall so hard onto the bed- I awoke and turned towards him, he was lying on the bed in an awkward position and looked uncomfortable. I encouraged him to settle in bed a little better. And he sat up as if he were trying to- and then promptly fell back into the same position he had been in before. I thought he was feeling weak again, so I got up and walked to his side of the bed to help him. I was talking to him as I picked up his feet and began moving them onto the bed, but I noticed he wasn't looking at me. As I lifted his legs, he began to shake and clenched his fists. I thought I was doing something to upset him- he had been unable to speak at all for many weeks, and used such dramatics to express his displeasure. In hindsight, I think he was having a seizure. It lasted for only 10-15 seconds and then he took a two breaths and he was gone.
As naive as it sounds, as sick as he was, neither of us ever seriously considered his death. Everything I knew about his wishes as far as services and burial were concerned, were from discussions we had years prior to the cancer diagnosis. No goodbyes.
I just want to be with him. It has been nearly eight weeks and it seems like I ache to be in his arms more with each passing day. If you were to ask anyone I have seen lately- they would tell me that I was doing amazingly well. I am. But I am only doing amazingly well to avoid the total collapse that I feel I am barely holding at bay. I only want one of two things to happen... I either want to be with him where he is... Or I want him to be here with me. Life without him is gray- and I want a sunny, joyful, vivid color life- not just a mere existence.