It’s been nearly 8.5 months. And I’m still incredibly angry.
This disease shouldn’t exist. It isn’t fair.
John didn’t do anything to deserve this. I didn’t do anything to deserve this.
It feels like God is taking my husband from me. A good man. The one who helped me heal.
The whole reality is pretty awful from both John’s and my individual experiences.
And because I know everything I do now, it kind of makes things worse than before when I was still gasping for air.
It’s easy at first to think that surely there’s a treatment, like all these other cancers. Surely all we need is to work hard and everything will be OK. Surely there’s time to explore options.
It’s easy to think that since John never did drugs, didn’t smoke, ate and exercised well, that whatever this was, it could be conquered.
The young are always naïve.
I never know when I’m going to break down into tears and it sucks. Being a mother and military wife helped somewhat to prepare me for this, but not enough of course.
Support groups help, but aside from preparing for possibilities, it also exposes you to a lot of collective pain. There are so many possible scenarios, mostly all leading to the same outcome. Like a “which way” book with 100 different endings, but only three that are happy.
At the same time, reading everyone’s stories also makes me incredibly grateful. We’re not dealing with a lot of the things other people are.
Some people have really horrible families. I can’t believe some of the things I’ve heard. Some patients have no insurance or their insurance is denying their treatments because they cost too much. Some have newborn babies. Or paralysis. Or rage from brain damage. Or some patients have lost all ability to feel love or care.
So as hard as things are, I keep reminding myself that these things could be worse.
And that I just have to keep trying to capture memories and make a difference.