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What Family Mythology Feels in Real Life

Recently I have been assisting a very dear person to me. The name will remain anonymous, because it is not for me to disclose. But believe me, I would lay my life down if it were to come to that. These recent events have made me look deep inside; it is inevitable.

I lost my wife to cancer: Glioblastoma Multiforme, or GBM for short. There is no cure for this affliction. I took care of her until her last breath. She faced her predicament with bravery and gallantry. She wanted to be in the "5%," the ones who beat the odds. But life does not work like that.

I stopped working, and for 16 months we fought together for her life. When it was evident she was losing, she told me: "No hospice, no hospital." She died with no bedsores, a testament to her care.

At the moment before she crossed, I asked my daughters to join me in a ritual. Our younger daughter played her clarinet, and our older daughter held her hand. We were telling her she was not alone. In my wife's will, there was a line: "To pass peacefully and receive medication only to ease the pain." My will contains the same line.

Close to the moment of her passing, I administered her due morphine dosage to ease her pain. Moments later, she crossed the threshold. Then the thought came: "Should I perform CPR?"

The answer came from replaying the last time she was admitted to the hospital. I remember an Emergency Room physician asking me, "If her heart stops, what do we do?"

I thought hard on that one. "Nothing; it would be her time."

Looking into my eyes, he said, "That is the correct answer."

So, we let her go.

After she was gone, I truly wanted to disappear; to go to a remote island and stay there. Then the thoughts of my daughters pulled me back. I organized a road trip, a new one, to celebrate Mom. That was the intent. We traveled to the Rockies by road, went to Muncho Lake, and stayed at the lodge there for a few days. It was a remembrance trip. We played all of Mom’s favorite music. She used to be a Toastmaster and had recorded a couple of speeches; we played those, too. It helped my daughters.

When we returned, I attended a grieving program for a year. But I was very sad, and the fact that I could not collapse added to my anxiety. I talked to my doctor, and he recommended a Cognitive Behavioural Program. It taught me to recognize the architecture of my own grief, to identify the symptoms of depression before they took hold. By learning what they look like and how they feel, I learned how to mitigate them. It didn’t stop the sadness, but it gave me a way to stand back up.

My wife also did amazing things for me and for her family. I have never met anyone more loyal. In previous stories in this blog, she risked her life for me; she strategized for me when I was in distress and could not see the right path. I have never met anyone like her.

My wife and I spent almost 27 years married and 30 years getting to know each other. Every day, it felt as if we had just met, fresh. She had a special technique: hugs for 20 to 30 seconds every morning, every afternoon, and every night, whether I was mad or upset.

They say grief is the price we pay for love. If that is true, the debt I owe for her presence in my life is one I will gladly pay forever. Her dedication to me, and to us, marked the deepest fiber of my soul, and it is that fiber that holds me together today.

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