Cancer Ever After

Musings on Infertility, Adoption, Parenthood and Cancer

Suicide loss survivor

Did you know there is a special word for who I am now? I would have thought suicide victim, but that’s the phrase for him, not me. Don’t believe me, just google it. Suicide Loss Survivor”. That’s who I get to be.

If your wondering what it feels like to be here, imagine you have been planning a special date night or romantic getaway for your spouse, and then get a call to find out they died in a car accident. When you get to the scene, they have died, but in a terrible twist, there are divorce papers in the car with him.

That’s what this feels like. I was blindly happy. Our life wasn’t perfect, but it was good, and I was planning that special evening. And the loss is brutally sudden, with a heavy dose of betrayal. I question everything now, how did I not see?

The hardest part is when I begin to feel happy. Happiness hurts, physically hurts and almost always has me in tears. I took the kids to a trampoline park, they were having some damn much fun, and he wasn’t there to enjoy it with me. I should have been chatting with him as they played.

Each memory that I’m building and will treasure now has a hole in it.

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Grief

Grief is strange. My grief is deeper and broader than the ocean, and it’s as if my mind and body know that it is far too much for me to bear. I feel as if somewhere inside,  my mind has attempted to put a dam on the Ocean of my grief, but it’s an impossible task.

You can no more dam grief than you can stop the tide. With any loss, it is inevitable. And yet, I cannot comprehend the enormousness of what I have lost all at once. I feel as if the last ten years were based on lies and misinformation. I question our life together. Was he ever really happy with our life? Was the infertility and cancer just too much piled on to previous difficulties, or was it getting laid off that was the final straw?

I weep for the future we won’t have and the memories my children won’t have of their father. My children are 5, 5, 3, and 1. The twins may remember a couple of vacations, and I’m hoping the 3 year old remembers a little. I know the baby won’t.

If I wasn’t enough to live for, why weren’t our children?  That’s the part that I’m not sure I’ll ever understand. I never questioned going through a single part of chemo or radiation because it was simply what I had to do to be here with my family. It was the price I had to pay to get to live longer. I wanted to live to see my babies grown. Why didn’t he?

There are too many thoughts intermixed with the sadness. I miss the jokes, the hugs, the partnership. I can’t think of everything or I’ll be sucked to the very bottom of that ocean. Instead I have to grieve in parts in pieces. So my mind created the dam.

There are days where I am walking and talking and seem just fine, but inside the tide still rolls. Out of  nowhere there is a tide of sadness, or rage or despair that rolls up in a wave over that dam and takes me by surprise. Sometimes it’s a song, or word that triggers a memory. The memories are still more painful than comforting.

I cry in the car, in the McDonald’s drive thru, on my lunch hour, in the shower…. The numbness has worn off, and the dam seems to be lowering as if knowing I need to fully grieve Tim’s loss, and judging me more capable now than I was at first. I miss the life we had, I miss the life we should still have, and I hate having to explain that Daddy is dead everyday to a three year old who just wants bedtime kisses from his Daddy.

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A place in hell

I don’t believe everyone who commits suicide goes to hell, but after tonight I certainly hope you at least make a pit stop there.

After hearing your son talk all day about wanting to fish and hunt just like daddy, and then end the day in tears crying for daddy, you deserve to be there. 30 minutes of crying his heart out for you.

He idolized you. How am I going to teach him these things. I can perhaps forgive you choosing to leave me, but your choice to leave your children this way is unforgivable and selfish.

They loved their perfectly imperfect daddy.

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On love

I hate the man that murdered my husband.

I love my husband.

To the man that pulled the trigger:

You put an end to my world.

My children have lost their innocent wonder because of you.

Broken families lie in your wake.

Everything I once held dear and knew about my husband has been torn asunder.

You broke my heart, my spirit, my ability to believe in the goodness of others.

I hate you.

And I still love you.

I miss your smile, your smart ass remarks, and the way you nibbled on my neck.

I miss your calls, your texts, your comforting presence at the end of the day.

The kids miss you too. They want to know what angels wear, if you can fish in heaven and if your car went to heaven too.

The baby says “DaDa” and looks for you.

I still say “we”. I forget for brief blissful moments that you are gone.

I love the man I married and created a family with. The man I planned to grow old with and raise grandchildren with.

I hate the man who murdered him and ripped that away from me.

The problem is, they are both you.

Damn you.

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Lavender and Black

B.K. (Before Kids) – I read voraciously. Nothing to improve my mind, that is seriously overrated. I mainly read trashy romances. Historical, Paranormal, Modern, you could say I’m a connoisseur.

The historical romances always seemed to find a way to work in mourning clothes, or going into mourning. I understand that better now.

I full on lost my shit at Target today.  Finding chicken bullion led to a breakdown in aisle 8.  It reminded me of the last day, where I was so frustrated over what my husband bought when he went to the grocery store. I was mad because he bought ground pork instead of ground sausage and 20 pounds of potatoes instead of 5.  I said something in my irritation, I can’t remember what. It was small, I was blowing off steam.

But is that what he heard? That’s the funny thing about depression. I had no idea he was depressed, but I’ve been there once, very deeply, myself. I understand what it is like to twist what you hear or to focus on particular items. Did I make him feel less than?

Every conversation we’ve had replays in my mind. Any time, I turned away from cuddling, or being woken up for a 2 a.m. romp and said no. Did that feel like rejection? I know what I meant, but how was it heard? What did he think? I used to think we understood each other. Now I question everything.

Hence, the breakdown in Aisle 8, at the McDonald’s drive-through, and in the school entryway.  Now I understand why they wore mourning clothes. It wasn’t about the mourner, it was to warn everyone who came into proximity with them.  I have picked two fights with strangers over small things I would normally let slide.

I still walk, I still talk, and I can still smile. But I’m no longer me inside. What was once filled with love and happiness is now an empty void that occasionally fills with anger, grief, or sadness. I go through the motions, but I’m not really me. I can’t help but wonder, is this how he felt inside and I couldn’t see it?

 

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