Personal reflections on love, death and suffering: My narrative of the final days of my husband's life

Extract

John was weak, something that had begun quite suddenly the day before, and he needed my help in order to lift himself off the couch or to climb the stairs or to maneuver throughout the house. That morning, I had to cancel an invitation to accompany my parents on a trip out of town; John was too weak for me to leave him alone. I had been looking forward to leaving behind my responsibilities for a bit ever since my parents had suggested that I needed a break—and the prospect of a short trip into the Ottawa Valley for a few hours, a chance to live a little out from under the weight of everything at home, was so enticing. The decision not to go was both completely inescapable and incredibly hard, and I sobbed for a long time after getting off the phone with my Dad. For the first time since John had become ill, I let myself tell him how unfair this disease was and how its presence in our lives was affecting not only him, but me—how I felt that I no longer existed in any meaningful sense apart from the illness, how my entire days were defined by the need to manage his illness, his almost daily trips to the hospital, the constant appointments, the endless challenge of trying to get some nutrition into him, the need to take care of everything around the house and yet to stay on top of work.