As the weeks slowly continue to pass by since my beloved wife, Catherine, lost her battle with that vicious disease that is brain cancer, I’ve worked hard to navigate this new reality alongside our children. There will be a lot of rawness in this post because I know that there are those of you out there who can’t fully understand how I’ve been able to maintain my level of composure and/or peace after what my family endured over the past few years.
I feel that it is important to articulate this in a way that ensures that by the end of it, you have a better understanding of how and why we have chosen to place our focus on happiness, optimism for the future and mental/emotional intelligence, consciously choosing to honor the incredible strength and optimism that she displayed throughout her fight.
For those of you that aren’t fully aware of the statistics. The median survival for a grade 4 anaplastic astrocytoma diagnosis is typically around 15 months, with 5-year survival rates at approximately less than 5%. From the very beginning, I knew that this was not going to end well for us.
As a pragmatic and analytical person, I spent hours reading every single medical journal on her diagnosis that I could find in the National Library of Medicine, trying to find any information or treatment protocol that could lead to better outcomes… I could not. They did not exist because her diagnosis from the beginning was virtually a death sentence, leaving you with a sense of hopelessness that was completely palpable and unshakable since the very first week we discovered the brain tumor.
I carried this sense of dread that I felt internally because, on the outside, I had to be the quiet strength that both Catherine and the children needed to continue to operate as routinely as possible. My wife, unfortunately, also carried a lot of denial about the severity of her condition, which was both completely understandable and served as a blessing in disguise for a lot of her cancer journey because I couldn’t imagine going through all of the painful surgeries, experimental treatments, and the like that she went through knowing that it was all for nothing. I would never do anything to take that optimism from her.
Adding to those statistics, I’d also heard from so many sources about the gender disparity in the rate of spousal abandonment in patients diagnosed with cancer or other terminal illnesses. There is a greater than 6-fold increase in the rate of men who leave or divorce when their wives are diagnosed. That was never going to be me. I’d never even thought of abandoning my wife when she needed me most.
This woman loved me over the course of a 13.5-year period at my worst without judgment and saw me all the way to becoming the absolute best version of myself, and loved me steadily to the very end. There was never a bone in my body that considered not showing up for her in whatever way I had to, regardless of how hard it got, and it got extremely hard… Harder than I could ever even communicate in the words I’m sharing with you right now.
As I mentioned in a previous post, in addition to watching her slowly wither away despite our best efforts to fight this monster of a disease, both myself and our children, over the past two years, had to witness her slowly lose her intellect, her memory, her happiness, her ability to walk, and her desire to love on and be present with all of us.
I’ve kissed her with tears in both of our eyes as she’s been rushed off to surgery. I’ve sat helplessly on the sidelines as doctors and surgeons have performed a myriad of procedures, revisions, and life-saving measures. I’ve held her hand as she’s winced with every poke of a needle by a nurse or phlebotomist. I’ve shielded our children from seizures, and other things that I’ve known could have a detrimental impact on their emotional states. I’ve driven frantically to the ER at midnight on multiple occasions to get her care during a medical crisis.
I held her up when her legs were no longer strong enough to support her. I’ve cleaned up vomit, blood, and tears multiple times per day, every day, for over a year. I repeat this because it warrants being said to fully contextualize the experience that brain cancer creates and, frankly, still doesn’t adequately describe the experience to the uninitiated. I’ve cried more times than I could count, and I’ve lost more sleep in two years than most will have lost in an entire lifetime.
I’d played various scenarios out in my head thousands of times, searching for anything that could provide us with any hope whatsoever, and kept coming up blank. I did everything I could and took her to the best specialists I could find, but I still felt like I wasn’t doing enough. The mental toll this takes on a man just trying to show up for his wife is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, but still, I showed up every single day without hesitation.
Throughout this two-year-long nightmare of a journey, as parts of my life with my wife were slowly chipped away piece by piece, I grieved the entire time. From finding out that this is a death sentence in the first week, to seeing her personality completely change after surgery, to watching as all of the joy and affection that made our relationship so magical for so long slowly be stripped away from you.
You find yourself grieving the life that you had before… All of the little things, the smiles, the laughs, the cuddles, the kisses, the physical intimacy, all disappear, and you’re left with a completely different kind of love. A love rooted in survival and care… The deep love that underpins the vows we shared on our wedding day all those years ago. Most men will never have to experience that, and I’m glad they won’t because, honestly, I don’t believe that most men have what it takes to stick it out — which is fully reflected in those statistics that I shared previously.
I take great pride in and feel very peaceful in the fact that I gave my wife every ounce of strength I had in me to make her feel as loved and as comfortable as I possibly could have throughout this ordeal. I wanted to embody all of those promises I made to her all those years ago so that the only thing she had to worry about was taking care of herself. This peace that I feel now is because I know that she felt that love until her very last breath on this planet, which is something that many people can’t understand.
Still, this journey is a personal one, and this is the only time I’m going to explain it because, from this point on, my focus is on moving forward and honoring my wife by being happy, living, and loving fully. That is how we keep her legacy alive. She always wanted the very best for our children and me, and it is my duty to make sure that we continue to give our very best in all aspects of our lives from here on out.
There are large swaths of people out there who want to tell me and my children how we should be feeling, all of whom have never experienced the pain of watching their spouse slowly die before their eyes at the age of 33.
They want me to be curled up in a ball in tears constantly — I’m not going to do that.
They want to see me falling apart to some degree — I’m not going to do that.
They want me to take some predetermined amount of time before going back to work, focusing on my fitness, meeting new people, making new experiences, or having fun with my friends — I’m not going to do that.
They want me to grieve the way that they believe they would be grieving — I’m not going to do that.
Not only had I already taken steps to emotionally prepare myself for this loss through a myriad of resources, including therapy, reading books, listening to podcasts, and both joining and starting my own support group. I choose to move forward with the understanding that I gave my wife everything I had in life, in sickness and in health. I feel peace in knowing that my wife is no longer in pain or suffering. That understanding gives me perspective, peace, and the ability to move forward without any contriteness about my role as her husband and caregiver.
I fulfilled those promises in ways that most people will never have to, at an age that only a small percentage of people ever face. I have zero regrets about the life we built together or my role as her husband and caregiver. We lived fully and without regret, pouring our hearts into each day and creating a lifetime of memories that reflected our love in only 13.5 short years. Our relationship ended before either of us wanted, but it did end the exact same way that it began: with unconditional and unwavering love for one another.
Each day, we focus on making choices that reflect her strength and spirit. We share stories about her, reliving the laughter and love she brought into our lives. Whether it’s cooking her favorite meals, watching her favorite movies, or taking time to do things together as a family, we are committed to living intentionally, ensuring that her legacy is woven into the fabric of our daily lives.
It’s important to me that my children understand that it’s okay to feel a range of emotions, and while sadness, anger, and frustrations will be a part of our lives, it is essential for us not to live in those emotions and let them consume us. Grief can feel isolating, but it’s a shared experience that connects us. I want them to know that while the pain of losing their mother is immense, they have every right to feel joy and happiness as they navigate life without her. We talk openly about our feelings, allowing space for both sadness and laughter, ensuring they know it’s okay to remember their mom and find moments of light and happiness amidst the pain.
All that to say this… While I recognize that some may feel compelled to share their opinions on how I should grieve or when I should move forward, I remain steadfast in my understanding that my healing journey is uniquely mine. I refuse to let others’ expectations dictate how I process the loss of my wife, and the way I choose to honor Catherine’s memory and navigate this path forward is deeply personal.
While my wife may have physically died, her spirit, strength, and the love we shared will forever be a part of me and our children. We will carry her legacy forward, living each day full of purpose and joy, reminding ourselves that Cat wouldn’t want us to stop living just because she is gone.
She would want us to embrace life fully, to find happiness despite all that we’ve been through…
Talk soon,
Walt D.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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