For those of you who might be new here, my beloved husband, Randy, to whom I’d been married 50 years, 5 months, 14 days, died two weeks ago today. On February 1 he went to the ER with some ocular disturbances coupled with some numbness in his right hand. Within hours, after a CT Scan of his head, we were told he had lesions in his brain indicative of metastatic brain cancer. After spending a few days in the hospital, the full diagnosis was known: non small cell lung cancer that had spread to his brain, bones, and adrenal gland.
Doing your own research on the internet can scare the hope out of you. We didn’t let it. Because I’d had 3 bouts of breast cancer myself, we talked regularly about our choice of quality over quantity of life. We were both adamant we’d never agree to chemo. That, however, is easy to say until you have to make a real world decision when you discover, shockingly, that your body, which served you so well for 74 years, is riddled with malignant cells growing out of control.
Still, Randy held fast, opting instead for immunotherapy, targeted brain radiation, and some holistic therapies we heard testimony had helped. Three months later we were still hopeful he and God could get this under control.
Even so, I prayed from the beginning that if this was the beginning of the end of Randy’s time on earth, that God would be merciful and take him as quickly and as pain-free as possible. In retrospect, God answered those prayers, in spades. Randy had less than a month of noticeable decline. His pain medication consisted mostly of ibuprofen starting 6 weeks before he drew his last breath, then about 10 days of Tramadol, followed by10 days of no pain medication at all, and finally only 6 doses of morphine. Thank you, Lord. His physical suffering appeared minimal.
Randy went so fast at the end. I was shocked he died that Tuesday morning. We’d signed up for hospice 8 days before. On the Thursday before, the hospice nurse was here and together we 3 decided that Randy wasn’t yet ready for daily (end-of-life) visits. He was still ambulatory, talking, and continent. Things went downhill very quickly starting on Friday. A hospital bed was delivered on Sunday. He only spent about 36 hours in it. I wonder…if you know exactly where you’re going after you shed your earth body, and you want to spare yourself and your family the horror of a long, painful illness, can you will yourself into heaven as quickly as possible?
No matter what your eyes see, your ears hear, or your heart feels, the brain can trick you to help cope with trauma. And make no mistake, the death of a spouse is trauma. I have a friend, Ellyn, for whom Randy made her stroke impaired husband (paralyzed on one side) a fishing wheelchair. I tried to look for a blog post about that and I guess we’ve never written that story. Watch for it in future posts.
Ellyn’s first husband dropped dead of a heart attack 8 weeks after they were married. As hard as Randy’s death has been, I can’t even imagine what Ellyn went through 40 years ago. I think about wives who say good-bye to their military husbands, never knowing whether they’ll return, and then they don’t ever return to them. I recall conversations I’ve had with friends who‘ve already lost their spouses. I also remember the grieving process for people I know who’ve lost children, parents, best friends, mentors, and even pets.
I’m reading a book gifted to me about a month ago from my friend Carla. It’s called The Five Invitations, subtitled Discovering What Death Can Teach Us About Living Fully. In it, the author related a story about a woman who came to the Buddah begging him to save her dead son. The Buddah gave her the task of bringing him a single mustard seed (a common spice) from a household that hadn’t been touched by death. The woman, thinking it was an easy task, set out, filled with hope, to find that single mustard seed. In the process she discovered that death comes to us all, and that understanding freed her from her isolation. Knowing that all people experience death gave her peace and she was able to process her son’s death.
This, that we all (as different as we are) experience death, is why grief is such a personal, unpredictable journey. In the beginning, I felt special (not in a good way), as if I am the only person death has ever touched so intimately. Intellectually, of course, I know that’s not true. In fact, Randy and I talked about death as inevitable many times. No matter how prepared you might think you are, you should know that you aren’t prepared for the reality at all. It hurts more than I imagined it would. It’s more unreal than I imagined it would be. It’s sadder than I thought it could be. And grief manifested itself physically in ways that caught me completely by surprise.
I am intelligent, stoic, and positive. Logical and methodical, I can focus on tasks and achieve goals, straighten out misunderstandings, and fix problems. I know how to research what I don’t know and I’m not afraid to dive in head first to situations that need doing. In the past, nothing phased me from tackling tough or sticky circumstances like a bull in a China shop, if that’s the approach that was needed.
Until Randy died.
There’s a real thing called Widow’s Brain. I thought my friend Pam (whose husband Joe made his permanent move to heaven just over 6 years ago) was kidding when she told me about it. Then I realized I have it.
Widow Brain Syndrome (even classifying myself as a widow came as a shock to my system) is a state of temporary cognitive impairment and mental fogginess that occurs after the death of a spouse. It’s the brain’s natural, protective response to overwhelming trauma and emotional shock. Common symptoms are short-term memory loss, difficulty concentrating, indecisiveness, and mental exhaustion.
Check, check, check, check.
I know this, too, shall pass. Widow’s Brain is one of the reasons a surviving spouse is cautioned not to make major decisions for at least a year after their spouse’s death. It’s also a very good reason to seek support groups, learn to compensate for the decreased cognitive ability, and to simply life for a time following the trauma.
I don’t like having Widow’s Brain one little bit. It seems like adding insult to injury. But there’s also a certain amount of comfort and satisfaction in recognizing that I am relatively normal, and I am giving myself the gift of grace. I’m taking a break when I think I need it. I’m resting more than I’d feel comfortable with in normal day-to-day life. I’m talking to Randy a lot, and dang it, I believe he’s talking back. And no one can convince me otherwise.
P.S. Humor helps. A lot. As the transport company (2 military veterans who said it was their honor to take care of Randy) loaded his body into the back of an SUV (I guess they don’t use hearses anymore), I said to them, “Randy always wondered if you could sleep in the back of an SUV. I guess you can.” We all bust out laughing. And yes, I’m crying as I tell you that story, but you gotta admit it was funny. It broke the tension then, and breaks the tension now.
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