I suppose that at some point in many of our lives we become fascinated with death, Last year I lost a lot of people in my life but most weren't immediate, that is someone I'd see daily or sometimes even weekly but the losses had me reflecting on how I'd face that sort of reality.
In the middle of that I read a biography on Ulysses S Grant. And they detail that he faced his death calmly. But part how he could do that was that he had a mission to write his autobiography. You see he had lost a lot of money to a scammer and he was trying to fund his family after he was gone and his story was almost sure to sell.
Forgive the anachronism but he didn't phone the book in. He worked very hard to write his story and do it right.
The part in your story about how your husband didn't want to make you empty the commode reminded me of that type of dignity. We care for each other in the ways that we can, and sometimes it's just trying to spare our loved ones more pain.
One of the saddest stories I have ever read. I took care of my husband at home for a long time and those same experiences were close to mine. The difference was while my husband was a DNR, and on Hospice, the night aid decided to call 911 and never called me. I woke up to a telephone call from the police and the ambulance attendants who were already in my home ready to bring my husband back from dying. He was 91 years old and I was an old social worker who thought I had everything under control. I did not. This is the first time I have written about it.
Beautiful text! I recognise many details in your story. My husband died of bladder cancer two years and three months ago. We had 42 years together. He finally adopted the hospital bed, but he always looked longingly over at the "real bed". One night he too fell while trying to go to the bathroom ripping off the catheter in the process. The nurse's aid finally came. I was hoping she could help me carry him back to the bed but she said she wasn't supposed to touch him, and instead called the French equivalent of 911 (which I could have done myself but I didn't want to). And they had orders to take him to the emergency ward, where he would lie on a stretcher for hours before anyone could get to him.
Mary I don't have a frame of reference to compare to because I have never been in a similar situation. However, I wanted to say thank you for sharing your heart and your vulnerability with us. You are a beautiful writer and more importantly, a beautiful person. Thank you.
Oh Mary, I’m not trying to start a support group or anything, but I went through such a similar process with my wife the past couple of years. Stage IV lung cancer and radiation along with chemo did wonders. But the immunology caused many more problems (shingles, pneumonia twice) than were worth it. During the last two and a half weeks a tumor in her esophagus grew and eventually spread to her wind pipe. Just seeing the word Atavan brought so much back, and that was just last October. I wish I had known about Holidol (sp?). Her hallucinations involved her believing she was being held against her will at 3 am in the hospital. She would text former coworkers to try to get them to bail her out. Even as I write this I’m still in some disbelief of having gone through it all. Thank goodness for a local hospice facility in which she spent her final 48 hours with me sleeping in the chair next to her. We were married twenty four years and she died at 57 years old. Side note ~ Halloween was our favorite holiday and she died on that day, though I’m 99% sure she was completely unaware of that. TYSM for sharing with all of us tonight!
Oh Mary. Another gem. So vividly written, and touched by your signature wry sense of irony. (Sounds like your husband had a similar wit.) The part about the six paramedics hit me right in the gut. You've read my story, so you know how parallel it is to yours. What is it about the cluelessness, not to mention the coldness, of the normie bureaucrats who are supposed to be helping? It can't just be compassion fatigue, especially in the case of the young social worker. I have to conclude that our American culture is just warped and infantile when it comes to mortality.
I am 40 years old and my 42-year-old husband is recovering from blood cancer. I worry constantly; I try not to worry constantly. I don’t know what I would do without him, but I know that death comes for us all. He is losing weight; he has complications from graft vs. host disease. I don’t know what to do but love him and make him coffee the way he wants it, with milk and Ovaltine. Oh, how we love our loves. Oh, how it hurts to face the very truth of what it means to love, and to know that it means, always, a good-bye. I only pray that ours won’t come for many years yet.
Oh, Mary. You were the most loving, caring wife. xo
I suppose that at some point in many of our lives we become fascinated with death, Last year I lost a lot of people in my life but most weren't immediate, that is someone I'd see daily or sometimes even weekly but the losses had me reflecting on how I'd face that sort of reality.
In the middle of that I read a biography on Ulysses S Grant. And they detail that he faced his death calmly. But part how he could do that was that he had a mission to write his autobiography. You see he had lost a lot of money to a scammer and he was trying to fund his family after he was gone and his story was almost sure to sell.
Forgive the anachronism but he didn't phone the book in. He worked very hard to write his story and do it right.
The part in your story about how your husband didn't want to make you empty the commode reminded me of that type of dignity. We care for each other in the ways that we can, and sometimes it's just trying to spare our loved ones more pain.
Thanks for sharing.
One of the saddest stories I have ever read. I took care of my husband at home for a long time and those same experiences were close to mine. The difference was while my husband was a DNR, and on Hospice, the night aid decided to call 911 and never called me. I woke up to a telephone call from the police and the ambulance attendants who were already in my home ready to bring my husband back from dying. He was 91 years old and I was an old social worker who thought I had everything under control. I did not. This is the first time I have written about it.
Thank you for sharing this story, Mary.
Mary, what a tender, gut-wrenching story. There aren't many who understand what it's like to be a caregiver to a dying loved one. Thank you.
Beautiful text! I recognise many details in your story. My husband died of bladder cancer two years and three months ago. We had 42 years together. He finally adopted the hospital bed, but he always looked longingly over at the "real bed". One night he too fell while trying to go to the bathroom ripping off the catheter in the process. The nurse's aid finally came. I was hoping she could help me carry him back to the bed but she said she wasn't supposed to touch him, and instead called the French equivalent of 911 (which I could have done myself but I didn't want to). And they had orders to take him to the emergency ward, where he would lie on a stretcher for hours before anyone could get to him.
Oh Mary. How I wish we had been right next door during this time. I hope writing this has helped to process the trauma.
This was heart-wrenching to read. My heart goes out to you. It's clear how much you and your husband loved each mother.
Mary I don't have a frame of reference to compare to because I have never been in a similar situation. However, I wanted to say thank you for sharing your heart and your vulnerability with us. You are a beautiful writer and more importantly, a beautiful person. Thank you.
So well written...I couldn't stop once I started and the tears welled up. The grief is raw and real.
Mary, thank you for your raw honesty. I won't forget this story. I hope it helps you to write about it. I know it helps me to hear it.
Oh Mary, I’m not trying to start a support group or anything, but I went through such a similar process with my wife the past couple of years. Stage IV lung cancer and radiation along with chemo did wonders. But the immunology caused many more problems (shingles, pneumonia twice) than were worth it. During the last two and a half weeks a tumor in her esophagus grew and eventually spread to her wind pipe. Just seeing the word Atavan brought so much back, and that was just last October. I wish I had known about Holidol (sp?). Her hallucinations involved her believing she was being held against her will at 3 am in the hospital. She would text former coworkers to try to get them to bail her out. Even as I write this I’m still in some disbelief of having gone through it all. Thank goodness for a local hospice facility in which she spent her final 48 hours with me sleeping in the chair next to her. We were married twenty four years and she died at 57 years old. Side note ~ Halloween was our favorite holiday and she died on that day, though I’m 99% sure she was completely unaware of that. TYSM for sharing with all of us tonight!
Such beautiful writing! Weren’t you both so lucky to have each other.
Oh Mary. Another gem. So vividly written, and touched by your signature wry sense of irony. (Sounds like your husband had a similar wit.) The part about the six paramedics hit me right in the gut. You've read my story, so you know how parallel it is to yours. What is it about the cluelessness, not to mention the coldness, of the normie bureaucrats who are supposed to be helping? It can't just be compassion fatigue, especially in the case of the young social worker. I have to conclude that our American culture is just warped and infantile when it comes to mortality.
I am 40 years old and my 42-year-old husband is recovering from blood cancer. I worry constantly; I try not to worry constantly. I don’t know what I would do without him, but I know that death comes for us all. He is losing weight; he has complications from graft vs. host disease. I don’t know what to do but love him and make him coffee the way he wants it, with milk and Ovaltine. Oh, how we love our loves. Oh, how it hurts to face the very truth of what it means to love, and to know that it means, always, a good-bye. I only pray that ours won’t come for many years yet.