The hardest thing was trying to swallow my fear. I was the steady one, the calm one. I could talk Sara down and help ground her. We never asked the doctor what her chances were, what the statistics were, but we both knew it was not in her favor. I didn’t have the luxury of being able to truly deal with my fear while things were happening – I had to support Sara, no matter what, and she needed me to be present and strong for her.
I remember when she was at her appointment with the gynecologist (who she only saw one time, who immediately referred her to the oncologist). I was waiting out in the lobby while the doctor was examining her, and she texted “This is very not good. They are trying to get me in to see gyno oncologist today” – and my heart and stomach both immediately dropped. She was experiencing so much pain at that time – we just wanted answers, but we didn’t want this to be the answer as to what had been causing her pain.
The hardest thing was to drive home without her each time she was in the hospital. She was hospitalized a total of four times during the course of her illness, and each time leaving her at the hospital to drive home each day felt like tearing out a little piece of my heart. The drives were at times therapeutic – giving me a chance to cry or scream or yell at the universe in my own little bubble, but I still hated that I couldn’t just stay there with her 24/7. Had we not had the pets at home who needed attention and care, I probably would have!
By the end, when Sara was in the hospital for the last two weeks of her life, I knew that there was a chance she wouldn’t come home – even if I never spoke those words out loud. I think that part of me looked around at the big house so quiet without here there, and wondered what the hell I was going to do if I lost her. I looked down at our dogs who were normally with me wherever I was and told them that their mom missed them and that we were trying our best to get her back home to be with them. I’m so, so sad that she wasn’t able to see them again in person during her final hospitalization – they always brought her so much joy.
The hardest thing was walking in the front door on November 3rd for the first time after her death, and having to face our house alone knowing that she would never step foot in it again. I don’t remember, really, what I did the rest of that day, but it probably involved snuggling with the animals on the couch or in the bed.
The first few weeks after Sara’s death were a whirlwind – making cremation arrangements (the person at the funeral home recognized me from when I was there in August for George), writing Sara’s obituary, sorting out her celebration of life ceremony, dealing with other sorts of paperwork… I went back to work after 2 1/2 weeks, but looking back, I wish I had taken more time, allowed myself more time to just grieve without any of the immediate to-dos or real life in the way.
The hardest thing was living through the year of firsts without Sara. I was afraid that I would drive people away with my public grieving, but I didn’t know any other way to survive. I wrote to keep myself sane, to express the thoughts and feelings I had inside that often didn’t come out well in conversation. I’m still grieving, and still writing, and still afraid of being viewed as a person who is playing the victim card, or who isn’t enjoyable to be around anymore.
I’ve generally been an introverted person with only a small number of friends – Sara opened up my world in that respect, and I have a much bigger social circle now than I did before I met her. But without her here, there’s more room for my self-doubt to creep in. She’s not here to talk me through my cringes over this interaction or that interaction, where I’ve managed to convince myself the other party must certainly think I’m the worst person in the world. I know I was Sara’s rock, but she did so much for me in return – and I miss our mutual give and take so much.
The hardest thing was waking up this morning without her, something that I have done 495 days so far, and which I will have to do every day for the rest of my life. Knowing all of the future moments I will have to get through without her breaks my heart over and over again. I’m very probably facing the end of life moments within the next few years for our two dogs without her, and at some point (hopefully in the much more distant future), the eventual death of our cat who was our first and only “together” pet, found in our backyard as a stray. I’m becoming an uncle again soon, and it breaks my heart that she’s not here to share in this joyful experience with me.
If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the death of a loved one comes with a whole string of “hardest” moments. They will never completely go away. Even if I find myself in a place five years from now where I’m happy and fulfilled and where life feels easier, there will be moments where the grief from losing Sara (and George) becomes too much. I know for a fact that if I do eventually have another child, the birth of that child will be an incredible mix of love, elation, and deep sorrow… and that’s okay. I know there are more “hardest things” to come – I just have to have faith that since I’ve survived so many hardest things up to this point, that I’ll be able to get through those that lie ahead of me as well.