Below is a link to a blog written by "L.A. Sosnowski, a veteran of the behind-the-scenes insurance field, whose goal is to help consumers buy smarter and get their money's worth."
L.A. Sosnowski writes: "In honor of Veterans Day this year, I want to help the families of military veterans get their proper benefit checks for life insurance policies held by service persons. IF you have kept up your military group life insurance policy during service (if still in uniform) or after discharge, you (or rather your beneficiaries) should be able to get the VA to accept your claim. Just read this article and go to the link given below to find the claim form."
Go to the link below for full information.
http://insuranceconsumeradvisor.blogspot.com/2008/11/in-honor-of-upcoming-veterans-day-how.html">
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Monday, November 10, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Book Review: Surviving Ben's Suicide by C.Comfort Shields
Recently, I was asked to review a book entitled "Surviving Ben's Suicide, A Woman's Journey of Self-Discovery" by C. Comfort Shields. My review follows:
"Surviving loss. Comfort Shields' story about surviving and living again after the suicide of her boyfriend is deeply personal and poignantly honest. Suicide is devastating, leaving loved ones bereft and with unanswered questions. Human life is frail, but as Comfort comes to understand, we are only responsible for our own actions and decisions. As much as we love another, we can only do so much to help them on their life journey, and the final decisions are up to each individual. Her story will reach out and touch many suffering along the same path."
Comfort's writing draws you into the story of her life as a young woman. And her love for Ben, a troubled young man. I am posting an excerpt with permission.
"...And then it hit me that I had been feeling lousy at work because I thought that I deserved it. I thought so because I believed that I was responsible for Ben’s death. But I wasn’t responsible for the choices that Ben made...
This revelation freed something inside of me, and I was able to go to work the following Monday and see myself through the eyes of the people around me. I knew I had made a mistake or two that week and that I would make another the next. I also knew, though, that most of the work I did was pretty good. And I knew that sometimes my boss might feel a little annoyed with me but wouldn’t have asked me to stay in my job if she had not wanted me there. Not only did I like and respect my boss, but she had become my good friend—even though I had not allowed myself to believe that she was my friend. . . .
I began to think about how Ben came to me—how he may have tried Sarah Lawrence as a last resort and how others had turned away from him. I started to feel proud that I had been there to reach out to him. And then I saw clearly that I had taken on a huge responsibility and that I had expected to win. The stakes were high. Life and death. Although Ben had not survived, at least I could say that I tried."
"Surviving loss. Comfort Shields' story about surviving and living again after the suicide of her boyfriend is deeply personal and poignantly honest. Suicide is devastating, leaving loved ones bereft and with unanswered questions. Human life is frail, but as Comfort comes to understand, we are only responsible for our own actions and decisions. As much as we love another, we can only do so much to help them on their life journey, and the final decisions are up to each individual. Her story will reach out and touch many suffering along the same path."
Comfort's writing draws you into the story of her life as a young woman. And her love for Ben, a troubled young man. I am posting an excerpt with permission.
"...And then it hit me that I had been feeling lousy at work because I thought that I deserved it. I thought so because I believed that I was responsible for Ben’s death. But I wasn’t responsible for the choices that Ben made...
This revelation freed something inside of me, and I was able to go to work the following Monday and see myself through the eyes of the people around me. I knew I had made a mistake or two that week and that I would make another the next. I also knew, though, that most of the work I did was pretty good. And I knew that sometimes my boss might feel a little annoyed with me but wouldn’t have asked me to stay in my job if she had not wanted me there. Not only did I like and respect my boss, but she had become my good friend—even though I had not allowed myself to believe that she was my friend. . . .
I began to think about how Ben came to me—how he may have tried Sarah Lawrence as a last resort and how others had turned away from him. I started to feel proud that I had been there to reach out to him. And then I saw clearly that I had taken on a huge responsibility and that I had expected to win. The stakes were high. Life and death. Although Ben had not survived, at least I could say that I tried."
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Infant Bereavement and Remembrance Photography
Recently I came across the website of photographer Cherly Mauldin. Her photography services cover a wide range of subjects, but what I found very interesting were the services she offers regarding infant bereavement and remembrance photography. Cheryl belongs to a nationwide network of affiliated photographers who offer this service to families, called "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep" at http://nowilaymedowntosleep.org/>.
You can see all the services available as well as contact information for families to get in touch with infant bereavement photographers in their area.
Cheryl's website blog with information and pictures is here. http://www.mauldinphotography.blogspot.com/>
You can see all the services available as well as contact information for families to get in touch with infant bereavement photographers in their area.
Cheryl's website blog with information and pictures is here. http://www.mauldinphotography.blogspot.com/>
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Stages of Grief - It can be a Messy Process
From my own experience as a widow of four years, not only writing about grief the last several years but talking with others -- often times people don't understand the sometimes messy, non-linear and very individual grief process. There is no set way to do it. However, I've found the best way to "do it" is to take it day by day, sometimes moment by moment. No expectations, no hard and fast rules, just do what works to get yourself through it and into a better place emotionally, mentally, spiritually.
The Kubler-Ross Model defines the stages as follows: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. Even Elisabeth Kubler-Ross stated that not everyone always experiences all of these stages nor are they experienced in a clear, linear fashion. Kulber-Ross talked about the above stages in relation to someone who is dying, and also those who have lost a loved one. However, these stages of grief can also be linked to a situation which involves a real or perceived lack of control over one's life.
In the end, it's interesting how we each handle life's "smackdowns".
The Kubler-Ross Model defines the stages as follows: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. Even Elisabeth Kubler-Ross stated that not everyone always experiences all of these stages nor are they experienced in a clear, linear fashion. Kulber-Ross talked about the above stages in relation to someone who is dying, and also those who have lost a loved one. However, these stages of grief can also be linked to a situation which involves a real or perceived lack of control over one's life.
In the end, it's interesting how we each handle life's "smackdowns".
Inspired Stamping with Sympathy Cards
I found this blog this morning by Annette Rolls, entitled, "How to Express Sympathy in Sympathy Cards. Supporting Others in the Loss of a Loved One." What's interesting about Annette's post, her suggestions are applicable to anyone having suffered the loss of a loved one, whether it is in relation to creating a special sympathy card or helping that person through their loss in daily life. Here is the URL.
http://www.inspiredstamping.com/my_weblog/2008/07/how-to-extendin.html?cid=122666708/>
http://www.inspiredstamping.com/my_weblog/2008/07/how-to-extendin.html?cid=122666708/>
Friday, April 25, 2008
Stepping Across the Threshold
Sometimes when your loved one is near death's door, you still hope for a reprieve. It's not to be, they step through that door anyway, irregardless of who's left behind.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Caregiving and the Final Conclusion
Loss is devastating and we’re never prepared, even following caretaking over an extended period of illness. We need to talk about it more, to help bring each of us, the ill and the caretaker and family, to a more accepting, peaceful, loving and accepting conclusion. But it is difficult.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Giving Kids the Facts
I came upon an interesting post today at http://theviewfromhere.wordpress.com
It brought up the subject of funerals, death and dying....and being honest with kids. My thoughts on the matter are it's thought provoking -- trying to give kids information without giving them too much information to scare them, but be honest. I never wanted my kids to feel they’re prohibited from asking questions they need to be answered.
We all handle/filter the death process differently, but I tend to agree that kids need the truth, as hard as it is sometimes. At my mother-in-law’s funeral, my then 9 year old wanted to play one last song for his grandmother, and he did this while 3 tears dropped onto his fiddle at the gravesite. When his dad passed away a year later and we scattered his ashes, my son played another song, but up in our field behind our house. It was his way to say a final goodbye, but we all know know that is only the beginning of the grief process.
It brought up the subject of funerals, death and dying....and being honest with kids. My thoughts on the matter are it's thought provoking -- trying to give kids information without giving them too much information to scare them, but be honest. I never wanted my kids to feel they’re prohibited from asking questions they need to be answered.
We all handle/filter the death process differently, but I tend to agree that kids need the truth, as hard as it is sometimes. At my mother-in-law’s funeral, my then 9 year old wanted to play one last song for his grandmother, and he did this while 3 tears dropped onto his fiddle at the gravesite. When his dad passed away a year later and we scattered his ashes, my son played another song, but up in our field behind our house. It was his way to say a final goodbye, but we all know know that is only the beginning of the grief process.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
A Dream of Death
Elaine Williams copyright 2008
My husband was ill ten months with cancer when I had the dream. I had been taking care of his needs for almost eleven months, and even though some days there seemed to be progress, in hindsight I see it was really a steady progression on a downhill curve.
One night I had a dream I was upstairs in our two story house and looked out my youngest son’s window, which faces a large back field. I could see a large machine coming inexorably closer and closer toward the house. It made a terrible racket, almost like a threshing sound. With fear, I knew that it was going to come into the house through the back, into the kitchen and to the corner of the living room where my husband sat. I tried to call out and warn everyone, but I couldn’t speak. I ran downstairs, hearing it get closer and closer.
When I got down to the living room, my husband’s chair, where he always sat in the corner, was totally gone. The machine had come through the back of the house as I’d feared and swept him and his chair away. It continued around the front of the house and across the side yard.
I heard my youngest son talking out side to a friend of my husband’s, and the talk was normal, as if nothing had occurred. I wanted to cry out, but it was no use. When I awoke, I knew with certainty my husband was going to die.
I never told him about that dream. I couldn’t talk to him about it. I was afraid to acknowledge what I knew it meant. I was doing the best I could to keep my husband alive, but in my dreaming state, I knew he was going to die.
That day was the first time I acknowledged the truth of his impending death. That afternoon our regular hospice nurse arrived, and my husband asked her quietly, without fanfare, how much time she thought he had. I just stared at him, not saying a word. She said based on her experience, probably two or three weeks. I went into a numb state. I was not expecting him to confront his own death and mortality in this manner. And yet, it was only natural he would know the end was near. I had been denying it to myself.
When the nurse left, I walked outside with her. I told her of the dream I’d had. She put her arms around me in my distress. I faced the truth that he was going to die.
That week, my husband refused to let me put any of the protein rich formula I had been preparing for him, into the enteral pump, his only source of nutrition. I tried to argue with him, but he was quietly adamant. I still see the expression on his face. He simply said, “No more.” That was it. That was his way of telling me this is the end. Two weeks later he died. It wasn’t discussed, we didn’t’ tell the kids he no longer wished to receive the little sustenance his stomach could take. It was just done. Should we have discussed it with the kids? I don’t know. We talked with them about everything else. Most importantly, their father continually told him how much he loved them.
The last week is a mixed collection of jumbled memory. My husband didn’t sleep well, since he dozed on and off all day. He developed a bed sore that we were trying to cope with, but had to be incredibly sore. His focus turned inward. There was little verbal communication, and I stayed by his side most of the time. At night, he would be awake at two or three in the morning, and he’d drink cups of water at a time. It was amazing, considering he hadn’t been able to drink or eat in three months or more. He became incredibly weak, and I could no longer lift him to help him onto the commode, even as light as he had become. My heart cried inside, but there was nothing I could do, except love the man I had married twenty years before. I was exhausted, and knew I couldn’t take anymore. I wished for him to go to sleep and asked God to take him. His passing was relatively peaceful, but I always wondered if it would have been easier if we had talked more about him dying.
My husband was ill ten months with cancer when I had the dream. I had been taking care of his needs for almost eleven months, and even though some days there seemed to be progress, in hindsight I see it was really a steady progression on a downhill curve.
One night I had a dream I was upstairs in our two story house and looked out my youngest son’s window, which faces a large back field. I could see a large machine coming inexorably closer and closer toward the house. It made a terrible racket, almost like a threshing sound. With fear, I knew that it was going to come into the house through the back, into the kitchen and to the corner of the living room where my husband sat. I tried to call out and warn everyone, but I couldn’t speak. I ran downstairs, hearing it get closer and closer.
When I got down to the living room, my husband’s chair, where he always sat in the corner, was totally gone. The machine had come through the back of the house as I’d feared and swept him and his chair away. It continued around the front of the house and across the side yard.
I heard my youngest son talking out side to a friend of my husband’s, and the talk was normal, as if nothing had occurred. I wanted to cry out, but it was no use. When I awoke, I knew with certainty my husband was going to die.
I never told him about that dream. I couldn’t talk to him about it. I was afraid to acknowledge what I knew it meant. I was doing the best I could to keep my husband alive, but in my dreaming state, I knew he was going to die.
That day was the first time I acknowledged the truth of his impending death. That afternoon our regular hospice nurse arrived, and my husband asked her quietly, without fanfare, how much time she thought he had. I just stared at him, not saying a word. She said based on her experience, probably two or three weeks. I went into a numb state. I was not expecting him to confront his own death and mortality in this manner. And yet, it was only natural he would know the end was near. I had been denying it to myself.
When the nurse left, I walked outside with her. I told her of the dream I’d had. She put her arms around me in my distress. I faced the truth that he was going to die.
That week, my husband refused to let me put any of the protein rich formula I had been preparing for him, into the enteral pump, his only source of nutrition. I tried to argue with him, but he was quietly adamant. I still see the expression on his face. He simply said, “No more.” That was it. That was his way of telling me this is the end. Two weeks later he died. It wasn’t discussed, we didn’t’ tell the kids he no longer wished to receive the little sustenance his stomach could take. It was just done. Should we have discussed it with the kids? I don’t know. We talked with them about everything else. Most importantly, their father continually told him how much he loved them.
The last week is a mixed collection of jumbled memory. My husband didn’t sleep well, since he dozed on and off all day. He developed a bed sore that we were trying to cope with, but had to be incredibly sore. His focus turned inward. There was little verbal communication, and I stayed by his side most of the time. At night, he would be awake at two or three in the morning, and he’d drink cups of water at a time. It was amazing, considering he hadn’t been able to drink or eat in three months or more. He became incredibly weak, and I could no longer lift him to help him onto the commode, even as light as he had become. My heart cried inside, but there was nothing I could do, except love the man I had married twenty years before. I was exhausted, and knew I couldn’t take anymore. I wished for him to go to sleep and asked God to take him. His passing was relatively peaceful, but I always wondered if it would have been easier if we had talked more about him dying.
Afraid to Talk About Dying
Elaine Williams copyright 2008
When my husband was diagnosed with esophagus cancer, we never talked about him dying, except in the very beginning. I think we were afraid to voice the worst scenario we could think of, him not making it through this disease. He refused to consider taking the traditional route in medicine, which was chemotherapy and radiation treatment. He told me early in his illness he was certain that the chemotherapy would kill him right away. When such a diagnosis is delivered, you begin to carry around with you a heaviness inside. When someone you care about is terminally ill, it dominates your thoughts and every waking moment. Your mind races over the different treatments and the newest drug trials, in the slim hope that things aren’t as bleak as they seem.
When the doctors told him he had this cancer, which essentially prevented him from eating, he wanted them to operate and take out the largest tumor at the junction of the stomach and esophagus. His doctor said it would be a major operation, where the ribs would have to be cracked open, and not one that he had the ability to perform. After more extensive testing was done, the doctors decided not to operate because they felt there was a good chance the cancer had already spread to the lymph nodes in the esophagus region. I didn’t know it then, but I guess I should have -- they didn’t want to operate because they felt it was a lost cause.
We didn’t feel we should give up -- we just knew that each human life is a cause worth fighting for. We never gave up hope that he could beat this cancer, even though it wasn’t discovered until almost last stage. I never actually asked the doctor what stage his cancer was. I believe it was an emotionally insulating factor for myself. I was afraid to know. I did so much research on alternative therapies that might help him, but I was afraid to know where traditional medicine saw him in his stage of cancer. Perhaps I was just better off that way. If I had known, perhaps that may have taken some of the fight out of both of us. We passed many milestones on our quest to heal him. To me, it wasn’t extending his life, it was attempting to heal his life and his body.
When someone is terminally ill, you want to preserve every moment, and that in itself becomes exhausting, though you’re not really cognizant of the toll day to day life takes on you. You want to try every avenue available to get better. I wanted my husband to visit a clinic we learned about in Mexico, where they had a good success rate of treating his type of cancer. I questioned our alternative medicine doctor about the latest therapies for cancer patients. I refused to let hope die, especially when my husband’s smaller tumors disappeared, and even when he kept losing weight. My mother said to me once, that some women might have left, but it never occurred to me. How could I ever think of leaving someone who I love when they needed me?
We took note of every mile marker along the way. Each step forward felt like a triumphant race to the ultimate goal, his being totally cured of cancer. I read many stories about others who had beat this devastating disease. It wasn’t until three weeks before my husband passed away, the night I had a dream, that I knew he was going to die. I’m sure many others knew right along he was going to die, but being in the thick of living this illness, it wasn’t an option for me. When I had the dream he died, I awoke and knew he was going to die. It was that simple.
All hope turned to despair. And still, we did not talk of him dying. Perhaps we should have, I don’t know. Perhaps he didn’t talk about his dying to spare me and my children. Perhaps he was afraid that even though I’d always been strong, maybe he didn’t want to see me break into a million tiny fragments. And I might have. I might well have broken apart, lost the emotional glue that was keeping me together in those last weeks. When hope flees, emotion and fear can break you down.
Some days I thought there was nothing more terrible than watching someone you love waste away from 200 lbs to ninety or so pounds. The spirit and the brightness in his eyes was undiminished, until the last eighteen hours. When you look into a loved one’s eyes and all you see is a black glassy emptiness, you know it is the end. For someone who likes to take control, and make other’s comfortable, I knew there was noting I could do. It was the most helpless I ever recall feeling in my life. The end had been written, but we never talked about the end. I think it was just too hard.
When my husband was diagnosed with esophagus cancer, we never talked about him dying, except in the very beginning. I think we were afraid to voice the worst scenario we could think of, him not making it through this disease. He refused to consider taking the traditional route in medicine, which was chemotherapy and radiation treatment. He told me early in his illness he was certain that the chemotherapy would kill him right away. When such a diagnosis is delivered, you begin to carry around with you a heaviness inside. When someone you care about is terminally ill, it dominates your thoughts and every waking moment. Your mind races over the different treatments and the newest drug trials, in the slim hope that things aren’t as bleak as they seem.
When the doctors told him he had this cancer, which essentially prevented him from eating, he wanted them to operate and take out the largest tumor at the junction of the stomach and esophagus. His doctor said it would be a major operation, where the ribs would have to be cracked open, and not one that he had the ability to perform. After more extensive testing was done, the doctors decided not to operate because they felt there was a good chance the cancer had already spread to the lymph nodes in the esophagus region. I didn’t know it then, but I guess I should have -- they didn’t want to operate because they felt it was a lost cause.
We didn’t feel we should give up -- we just knew that each human life is a cause worth fighting for. We never gave up hope that he could beat this cancer, even though it wasn’t discovered until almost last stage. I never actually asked the doctor what stage his cancer was. I believe it was an emotionally insulating factor for myself. I was afraid to know. I did so much research on alternative therapies that might help him, but I was afraid to know where traditional medicine saw him in his stage of cancer. Perhaps I was just better off that way. If I had known, perhaps that may have taken some of the fight out of both of us. We passed many milestones on our quest to heal him. To me, it wasn’t extending his life, it was attempting to heal his life and his body.
When someone is terminally ill, you want to preserve every moment, and that in itself becomes exhausting, though you’re not really cognizant of the toll day to day life takes on you. You want to try every avenue available to get better. I wanted my husband to visit a clinic we learned about in Mexico, where they had a good success rate of treating his type of cancer. I questioned our alternative medicine doctor about the latest therapies for cancer patients. I refused to let hope die, especially when my husband’s smaller tumors disappeared, and even when he kept losing weight. My mother said to me once, that some women might have left, but it never occurred to me. How could I ever think of leaving someone who I love when they needed me?
We took note of every mile marker along the way. Each step forward felt like a triumphant race to the ultimate goal, his being totally cured of cancer. I read many stories about others who had beat this devastating disease. It wasn’t until three weeks before my husband passed away, the night I had a dream, that I knew he was going to die. I’m sure many others knew right along he was going to die, but being in the thick of living this illness, it wasn’t an option for me. When I had the dream he died, I awoke and knew he was going to die. It was that simple.
All hope turned to despair. And still, we did not talk of him dying. Perhaps we should have, I don’t know. Perhaps he didn’t talk about his dying to spare me and my children. Perhaps he was afraid that even though I’d always been strong, maybe he didn’t want to see me break into a million tiny fragments. And I might have. I might well have broken apart, lost the emotional glue that was keeping me together in those last weeks. When hope flees, emotion and fear can break you down.
Some days I thought there was nothing more terrible than watching someone you love waste away from 200 lbs to ninety or so pounds. The spirit and the brightness in his eyes was undiminished, until the last eighteen hours. When you look into a loved one’s eyes and all you see is a black glassy emptiness, you know it is the end. For someone who likes to take control, and make other’s comfortable, I knew there was noting I could do. It was the most helpless I ever recall feeling in my life. The end had been written, but we never talked about the end. I think it was just too hard.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Caretakers
Ask, interview or interact with any family caretaker and check out their stress level. It's only common sense that the caretaker is the one carrying the burden. I recall the time when my husband was ill, 98% of my entire focus was solely on him. I didn't dare relax that vigilance for fear of doing something wrong. Missing a doctor appointment, juggling medicines and narcotic prescriptions. The onus is on the caretaker to follow through with doctor's orders and even daily life, which may end up meaning daily survival for the ill person.
This should be (and perhaps is) common knowledge among nurses, hospice works, medical professionals such as doctors and their staff. My husband's holistic doctor inquired as to my health a few months before my husband passed away because I had laryngitis for almost two months.
In all honesty, I stated I was fine, even thoguht I wasn't, and pretty much brushed aside his concern. But for an older caretaker, I would be very worried for their health. Many times while you're in the thick of caregiving, you just keep going. You give no thought usually to how you're eating, what sleep you're losing. You just know there is another pill that has to be administered, one more feeding to take see too, another test result to look over. It's your full time job that you volunteered for. There was no sign up sheet. It's just the way it happened.
This should be (and perhaps is) common knowledge among nurses, hospice works, medical professionals such as doctors and their staff. My husband's holistic doctor inquired as to my health a few months before my husband passed away because I had laryngitis for almost two months.
In all honesty, I stated I was fine, even thoguht I wasn't, and pretty much brushed aside his concern. But for an older caretaker, I would be very worried for their health. Many times while you're in the thick of caregiving, you just keep going. You give no thought usually to how you're eating, what sleep you're losing. You just know there is another pill that has to be administered, one more feeding to take see too, another test result to look over. It's your full time job that you volunteered for. There was no sign up sheet. It's just the way it happened.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Caregiving: If You Knew the Ending, Would You Change the Beginning?
By Elaine Williams ©2008
When someone you love is told they have a terminal illness, you world becomes a narrow focus based on doctor appointments, meeting with healthcare advisors and keeping that person comfortable. In essence, many times we choose to put our life on hold to see to the needs of the person we love.
My husband was ill for eleven months before he died from cancer of the esophagus. While it was a grueling experience for our entire family, it also brought all of us closer together. As sole caregiver, I was focused entirely on his day-to-day care, and I was grateful for our extended network provided by Hospice, doctors, nurses, technicians, pharmacists, family and friends.
The last two months of my husband's life I slept next to the bed Hospice had set up in our living room. At night, I lay on the loveseat I'd come to hate and listen intently to his labored breathing. It was what I did when my kids were babies—listen intently for the next breath to make sure everything was okay. When my kids were babies, as when my husband was dying, I was alert to a breath interrupted or a sign of discomfort.
I managed to sleep in bits and pieces of time, fragments that made no sense to me. I would be sleeping soundly and then I would jerk upright, wide awake. I was exhausted mentally, emotionally and physically. I had always been very healthy, but I developed laryngitis for two months while caring for my husband.
There was such uncertainty and the fear of what was going to happen to all of us. The last week of his life, as he gradually grew weaker and more frail, I reached a point where I knew there was no going back. This was it. It was all out of my hands; not that I had ever had any control. Being in control was something I let myself believe in the beginning. Perhaps it was my way of getting through each day, thinking I actually had a say in what was developing in our midst.
Many times on that loveseat, I would lie awake and stare into the dark, overcome by an utter, unremitting aloneness. It was then I asked God to take him and take away his pain.
My husband mentioned a few times the last week of his life that he really needed a haircut, but I didn’t have the heart to call the barber. I wanted to spare my husband the possible shocked reaction from someone who had last seen him when he was healthy and vibrant.
Near the end of his life it was brought home to me that when you love someone, you’re subject to a certain vulnerability, but it doesn’t mean you stop loving. Moments during his illness, I wanted to shield my family from all pain, but many days I knew there was no guarantee I could even protect myself.
http://www.ajourneywelltaken.com
When someone you love is told they have a terminal illness, you world becomes a narrow focus based on doctor appointments, meeting with healthcare advisors and keeping that person comfortable. In essence, many times we choose to put our life on hold to see to the needs of the person we love.
My husband was ill for eleven months before he died from cancer of the esophagus. While it was a grueling experience for our entire family, it also brought all of us closer together. As sole caregiver, I was focused entirely on his day-to-day care, and I was grateful for our extended network provided by Hospice, doctors, nurses, technicians, pharmacists, family and friends.
The last two months of my husband's life I slept next to the bed Hospice had set up in our living room. At night, I lay on the loveseat I'd come to hate and listen intently to his labored breathing. It was what I did when my kids were babies—listen intently for the next breath to make sure everything was okay. When my kids were babies, as when my husband was dying, I was alert to a breath interrupted or a sign of discomfort.
I managed to sleep in bits and pieces of time, fragments that made no sense to me. I would be sleeping soundly and then I would jerk upright, wide awake. I was exhausted mentally, emotionally and physically. I had always been very healthy, but I developed laryngitis for two months while caring for my husband.
There was such uncertainty and the fear of what was going to happen to all of us. The last week of his life, as he gradually grew weaker and more frail, I reached a point where I knew there was no going back. This was it. It was all out of my hands; not that I had ever had any control. Being in control was something I let myself believe in the beginning. Perhaps it was my way of getting through each day, thinking I actually had a say in what was developing in our midst.
Many times on that loveseat, I would lie awake and stare into the dark, overcome by an utter, unremitting aloneness. It was then I asked God to take him and take away his pain.
My husband mentioned a few times the last week of his life that he really needed a haircut, but I didn’t have the heart to call the barber. I wanted to spare my husband the possible shocked reaction from someone who had last seen him when he was healthy and vibrant.
Near the end of his life it was brought home to me that when you love someone, you’re subject to a certain vulnerability, but it doesn’t mean you stop loving. Moments during his illness, I wanted to shield my family from all pain, but many days I knew there was no guarantee I could even protect myself.
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