Sad food?

Yesterday, my youngest was craving a meal that Kim used to “throw together” in a ginormous frypan. Kim was going to show her how to make it, but, for whatever reason, that lesson never occurred. So, based on what we remembered was in the meal, we ventured to the grocery store (and were dismayed to find them actively remodeling it…) and bought zucchini, yellow squash, diced tomatoes, tomato sauce, and chicken tenders. I thought some extra fiber and protein would be nice, so I added a can of light kidney beans and a can of great northern beans to the cart.

I put the meal together as I remembered Kim would do, chopping the onion, slicing the squashes, cubing the chicken, tossing everything into the pan, and bringing it to heat. I seasoned it as it cooked until what I tasted triggered my chef’s memory of what Kim’s rendition tasted like. It was very close. And that triggered a tidal wave of emotion I didn’t expect – one that stayed with me into today, as I’ve struggled with, for instance, answering a text to the affirmative with the phrase “Yea, verily!” which led to a memory of the Danny Kaye movie The Court Jester, which we enjoyed long ago (much to the surprise of my youngest son at the time – he didn’t want to watch it, and ended up mesmerized by it! One of his favorites to this day.) – but, more pertinent to this telling, a movie that my youngest son and I watched as we sat at dinner in March of 2020 while Kim was in Florida with her dad and sister – the last trip she took without the specter of cancer hanging over her; the trip where she began to acknowledge that her “ulcer” was getting worse.

And, later, my youngest daughter was in need of colored pencils for her art class. Kim was very, very artistic; very talented. And I knew that she had colored pencils in the bag she took to her chemotherapy sessions – a lavender cloth tote bag embroidered, simply “Chemo Shit.” Well, sorting through that bag yielded another flood of heartache. All her adult coloring books – most unfinished, some not started. Her puzzle books. A sketch pad. A couple of drawings from our granddaughter with the phrase “I love you Gramma I hop you fell betr” – one depicting Kim as an angel handing something to her – eerily prescient of the angel handing an unseen person a rose as depicted on the thank you cards from Kim’s funeral.

I’m finding lots of weird little triggers like that. Seemingly innocuous activities that will set me travelling down the road of sadness; sometimes at breakneck speed…

I messaged with the husband of the woman to whom I gave Kim’s horse, Roxy, today. Roxy is doing very well with them and seems to have adopted her new mistress. This is a testament to all the work Kim did with that once easily spooked, shy horse. And they absolutely love her. I made the right choice there.

Kim had wanted her sister to take the horse for her niece, and her sister told Kim that they would. After Kim passed was when I was told they couldn’t afford to take the horse as the farm where her niece’s horse was stabled was full, and her sister just didn’t have the heart to tell Kim that. I only discovered this by accident when I contacted the barn, and they told me not to worry: they were finding a good home for Roxy. Thank goodness I made that call! Though I’m sure Roxy would have been fine with whomever the farm found to place her with – they’re good people whom Kim trusted and I trust as well – Kim really wanted Roxy to go to someone she knew and respected. The woman to whom I gave Roxy used to ride Bert with Kim back in the day, until her husband’s job pulled them out of Michigan (he and I were good friends, too – and would brew beer together as often as we could). They’re back, they have taken Roxy, and I think Kim would be very, very happy with this decision. In any case, his message was that he’s not a horse person, and even he is enamored with Roxy; that she has given him what Kim used to call a “horse hug.” Again: the right decision was made.

I’ve also heard back from an old friend who lost his wife under similar circumstances over seven years ago. He told me that the hole in your heart never fills. He has found someone he loves who he has now been with for several years, but she doesn’t replace his first wife, nor fill the place in his heart she held. I can see that. The hole in mine is fresh and raw, but I honestly don’t see how it can be filled. It’s huge.

And, finally, an old friend from work who had been battling lung cancer for as long as I can remember finally gave up on all the chemo and radiation in December, about a week after Kim left us. He passed yesterday. I was sure that, if anyone, he would beat it. He seemed to be doing so well.

Sometimes it comes at you in buckets.

Time keeps on slipping into the future…

Every time I walk past my “work at home” workstation, the corner where, until Friday, Kim’s medical records, our notes, and documentation relative to the equipment used to treat her cancer sat glares at me. It seems so very empty now. Her death certificates, certain insurance, and Social Security information remain, but the binders and folders have been replaced with a For Dummies book on my Christmas present – the first SLR camera I’ve owned in about 20 years – a digital SLR (the last one I owned used this substance they called “film”…) – some notepads, and a pile of religious books I had bought over the last few months – books related to on meeting your loved ones in heaven, purgatory, and things like that (light reading, I guess…)

There still remain many things I have yet to do with regard to settling all the necessary things about her life, but the task list – at least the KNOWN task list – is getting smaller. Some seem so ludicrous in the light of the “life change” we’ve experienced – like going to Sam’s Club to show her death certificate so that I can change my card to the master membership. In the grand scheme of things, it really doesn’t matter much: it’s not a credit card (at least we don’t use it as one), but since each household gets two cards, it would be better to make one of the kids the second card so that it can be used. Getting my own “Kroger Card” so there is no confusion going forward on the credit card continuing for a deceased person, discounts, and “points”… Stuff like that, which the companies that provide them do not seem to have processes to manage such circumstances – at least no processes I’ve been able to ferret out. Most of her other credit cards – those that were in her name with me secondary or not at all (a good practice for all you young ‘uns starting your life together – if *I* were the one who had passed, having the good credit score that resulted from the clean payment records on those cards would have been VERY important to Kim’s future wellbeing!) were for merchants I have no further use for, and I have no interest in continuing a line of credit with those that remain. Those will eventually close due to no activity as I’ll be shredding the renewal cards.

Most of the “important” stuff is done – removal from my work-provided healthcare, removal as a beneficiary to my insurance policy… And then, I’ll be putting everything that’s left into a revocable living trust to make the kids’ lives easier when my time comes.

I will have to dig into her pension with her longest employer – unfortunately, they were “acquired” in recent years, and the issue of her pension is a bit murky. Kim wasn’t good at keeping track of that sort of thing, and, at the time the change took place, I was up to my eyeballs with one of the most difficult launches of my career in a far-away land. Hopefully, I saved the pertinent documentation in a rational place when I was home for a weekend. Best case, it’s in the front closet where I tend to toss all the “benefit” information we get. Second best case, it is stored with the income tax information for that year – a bit more difficult to find, but still better than “random”. Worst case, since I likely wasn’t at home when it came in, Kim squirrelled it away somewhere. We shall see.

And there are the angel statues that were part of Kim’s casket that we retained as mementos for the kids. I have to make mounts for them, which will put me at the controls of a router I haven’t touched in over a decade – the woodworking tools scattered about our home were predominantly Kim’s domain – she’d use them for her crafts. Her scroll saw, one of the first woodworking tools I bought for her, delivered up beautiful shapes at her hand that she would then paint and build into, say, a beautiful autumn display for the porch, or a Christmas plaque, or… For me, it only delivers frustration as, either due to impatience or dumb luck, I can never get it to cut on my line. Give me a jigsaw, circular saw – or even the bandsaw – instead!

Which brings the memory of the lathe laying in pieces in the garage since the day it was purchased. My brother had a nice lathe, and, WAAAAAY back in the day, he and I would drink some beers while turning silly little top-like shapes that Kim would turn into Christmas ornaments to sell at the craft shows she so enjoyed participating in. She loved those things so much that when her dad reported that one of his neighbors was selling a lathe and all the tools for it, she begged me to buy it for her. I did. And then I never found time to build the stand it would need to become useful. She never complained about that – maybe because she had enough to keep her occupied with all of her other tools, or maybe because she had forgotten it existed – but there it still sits, at least ten years now. More likely 15 – I honestly don’t recall. I guess that could qualify as a regret.

There are a few of those – regrets – looking back. Lots of instances where I wish I had responded differently to situations between Kim and I; to put her ahead of me. PLENTY of instances where I wish I could have resolved myself to understand, accept, and offer comfort, rather than be hurt by, or to rail against, the conditions or situation. I wish I had the understanding of certain of Kim’s conditions that I only developed late in our marriage. Almost too late for them to be a comfort too her. Just barely in time for at least one of them – a very important, elephant-in-the-room condition that Kim suffered with for about 20 or so of our 31 years – before the cancer diagnosis radically altered everything.

Again, we did become very close during her final 7 months. A death sentence like a stage 4 pancreatic cancer diagnosis is almost miraculous in how it will refocus you. Unfortunately, though: it is also terminal, so it is a refocusing that comes too late. Please, if you’re half of a married couple, hunker down and refocus yourself before life convulses and wrests that control away from you; before it takes away your time. You’ll have to do this often. I know when I took the time – and effort – to alter how I responded to things during our marriage, over time, I would slip back into my old ways. And it is each of those periods of regression that haunt me now.

A different kind of Sunday morning

Today was different for a couple of reasons. Normally, my youngest daughter and I will go to 8:00 mass, then over to my father-in-law’s house. From there, we go, with dad, to the cemetery to visit Kim’s grave, and her mother’s, right next to her. But this week, dad is on the way to Florida with his son, and my granddaughter was with me since my oldest had to work last night.

Plus, we were planning to go to Gramma Sue’s for brunch after it all. So, we went to 8:00 mass as usual, but with my granddaughter in tow; then returned home to putz around for a while, going to the cemetery in the late morning. What a difference that made for traffic!

In any case, the deer did not do much damage this week. Since it hadn’t snowed in a while, I guess they had enough exposed browse to forgo the pine boughs on all the grave blankets and other winter decor on the graves, and I didn’t have to retrieve the blanket and put it back on her grave. But I did pry some stones out of the frozen mound over Kim. My youngest boy had done this when his grandmother passed a year ago last August – I guess a keepsake of sorts. When Kim was buried, there weren’t a lot of stones evident, and, with the cold, COVID, masks and all the activity in setting the flowers and such after the earth was put back in place, it was difficult for him to find any. I’ll clean them up and give them to him later. Maybe keep one for myself – I’ll put it at the base of one of Kim’s plants that I’m trying to keep alive.

Funny – there were a lot of peace lilies delivered to the visitation at the funeral home. When I moved out of my parents’ house into the apartment Kim and I would share after we were married, she bought a big peace lily plant for the apartment and admonished me not to kill it (it was a challenge: I’m terrible with plants.). So, we began our life together with a peace lily, and our life together ended with peace lilies. One of Kim’s plants I’m trying to keep alive in her craft room is also a peace lily. I guess I’ll put the stones at the base of that one.

Well, I can’t say I was jumping for joy at all today, but I think my mood was a little lighter after the visit. Still won’t get any participation awards from anything…

Tough day.

For some odd reason, today was very hard for me. I just didn’t want to get out of bed, and then, after I did, I just felt melancholy all day, and couldn’t put my finger on why. There were no obvious triggers. Just…. blah.

I don’t think I’ve had a day like this. It is the first time when just the act of waking up made me feel sad. I can’t blame not having to work, as I was on vacation for the entire month after Kim passed away. Come to think of it, I was a bit out of sorts the night before. Maybe it was the “Family Friday” that got me? I just wanted to be alone; or, at least, I didn’t want to participate. I thought maybe I was coming down with something, but I don’t feel my health is off today.

I think this is something I’ll probably have to deal with now and again. I miss Kim terribly, and, I think, every now and again, it is just going to spill over and set the tone for the day without any obvious trigger.

Maybe I’m not doing as well against depression as I think I am. Time will tell. I find that I do not want to go out of the house – opposite what I’ve read on some other widowers’ blogs I’ve come across: most want to get away from the home they’d shared with their departed spouse – one I read of went to the point of selling the home and moving to another state! Not me. I want to be here, though there is a coldness about the place – especially when I return from somewhere else.

Today, I visited my mother.

Before Kim got sick, I would go to my mom’s every morning before work with coffee for her. Even after COVID sent us all home, I’d make the trip there, and, instead of continuing east afterward to go to my office, I’d turn around and head back west to my home. I stopped doing that when Kim got sick as I needed to focus there. Instead, I’d go on Saturday (usually with Kim) and bring mom enough coffee to heat up in that microwave to last her the week. Once Kim couldn’t travel, any thought of that ended. But, before that occurred, though, mom had an episode that meant she would have home healthcare people in her home with her every day – again: God sees to it. I do my best to get out every Saturday to see her. I don’t think anyone realizes the effort it seems to take now, though. And I cannot put a finger on why it is so damned difficult or unsavory to leave the house. Like I said: I don’t think I’m doing as well against depression as I thought I was.

And, it was my niece’s wedding day. Their wedding was postponed due to COVID, and, once rescheduled, the invitations were held up in the mail for over a month. By the time most received them, it was too late to make any plans to go to Texas for the wedding. Me? I’m all travelled out. I have no desire to get on a plane or take a long car ride to anywhere – this isn’t a result of Kim passing, but a result of spending so much time away from home during my career – travel holds no allure for me. In any case, the church live-streamed her ceremony, so we got to participate at a distance – my daughter, my mother, my niece and I watched it at Mom’s house. The bride, church and ceremony were all beautiful, but I hope they didn’t pay the singer much. Wow! Reminded me of Ray Bolger as the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz – but Ray could carry a tune!

In any case: congratulations to Erin and Thomas! May you have a long, happy marriage, and may you both be in your dotage before the good Lord calls either of you home.

Tomorrow is 8:00 mass, and then a visit to Kim’s grave to set her grave blanket to rights after the deer have had their evil way with it for a week. Oddly, though I feel great sadness at her grave, I usually feel a lot better after visiting it.

Packing things away.

So, I’ve had several binders of records on my “desk” that grew from one thin binder to two three-inch binders and several folders of various construction as we travelled along on what they called Kim’s “cancer journey.” (I hate that colloquialism; particularly when applied to pancreatic cancer. A journey toward what? A precipice?)

Today, I went into the attic, got a box, and put them in it. Page after page of information, research, meeting records, logs… Painful memories. There remains a bag from the funeral parlor containing the sympathy cards sent to us at and after the funeral, and, of course, the prayer cards, guest book, and remaining “thank you” cards from her funeral. The former simply wouldn’t fit in the box; the latter? I’m not sure what to do with them.

This is part of my grieving process, I guess. I promised myself that I wouldn’t make any changes to the house immediately, and I didn’t. As I go about my life after Kim, things that need to be dealt with come to the fore, and I’ve been dealing with them, one by one… These records. Her toiletries in our bathroom. Useful items still in her nightstand and other places that the kids can use…

Still other repositories of Kim’s stuff remain – and among them, there remains two veritable elephants: her clothes, and her craft supplies.

Long before she passed, but shortly after Kim received the diagnosis, she went through her closet and pulled out clothes that she knew she no longer needed or wanted. These remain in a rather tall box in our bedroom. I haven’t the heart yet to go through them. She also went through her craft room, organizing and cleaning. This struck me as odd because it was just like the “nest cleaning” she would perform a week or two before the imminent arrival of one of the kids back in the day. Maybe it’s the same? Maybe it was her “rebirth” into His kingdom she was preparing for? Or, maybe both were just a means to occupy the mind and body while waiting; dealing with the near-certainty of death. I don’t know.

And I don’t know why dealing with these things – this “stuff” – is so hard for me. She’s not coming back. She has no use for them. Few, if any, of her clothes would fit any of our daughters. Some of it goes all the way back to when we were dating.

And the piles and piles of cloth and other crafting supplies – who will use them? I don’t think I will – though I will maintain her equipment, frankly, I don’t know when I’d have the time to learn how her embroidery machine works – or, for that matter, any of the other equipment she would use regularly. Maybe the girls might.

Sigh.

I’m not alone, facing this Matterhorn. I know that widows and widowers throughout history have faced the same. That knowledge gives neither confidence nor purpose for the task. The knowledge also gives no solace.

So, I’ll make a label for that box of records, and I’ll put it on a shelf in the basement. I’m not sure why. Maybe I’ll know why a few years down the road, but it seems like the thing to do rather than discarding them. And then it will be on to the next after-Kim task that suddenly commands my attention with inexorable compulsion.

The kindness of strangers…

I know this site is mainly supposed to be focused on the grief of a widower – THIS widower – but I keep being reminded that people are inherently good. So, I thought I would write about it a bit. (Bonus day – two posts in one day… Aren’t YOU lucky?)

I was just called by the purveyors of Kim’s CPAP machine – over a month after Kim’s passing:

“Hello?”
“Hi, this is <name evades memory> from Sleep Solutions calling for Kimberley Babcock?”
“Kim passed away December first.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. She had rental medical equipment from us? A CPAP machine?”
“Kim told me that it was a rental for six months, and then it was hers.”
“No, it is a 13 month rental period. Can you hold on a moment?”
“Sure.”
The Silence of the Electrons….
“Mr. Babcock? I’m so sorry for your loss. I’ve written off the remainder of the rental.”
“Thank you so much for your condolences and your consideration!”
What seemed like a shocked silence…
“You’re welcome!” came back in a bright voice.
“Have a nice day!”
“You, too!”

And this is just one example.

The social worker from Angela Hospice who was following Kim’s case sent me a sympathy card addressed to “a model husband and father”. During a later phone conversation with him – he still calls now and again to see how we’re doing – I told him I hardly fit that description, so he spelled out for me what he observed, and how extraordinary it was compared to the other cases he has followed. Frankly: I was flabbergasted, and the thought of someone doing anything less for their loved one pains me.

On the subject of having been able to care for Kim at home, I’ve already mentioned that COVID and Ford Motor Company facilitated my ability to provide that care. I will not name names, but my manager, chief engineer and director deserve high, high praise for the thoughtful consideration they gave to me and my situation. I have worked for others who would not have been so understanding, accommodating, or caring.

And my daughter’s high school – Saint Mary’s Catholic Central in Monroe called me during Kim’s viewing. I did not note the call or answer it, but they left voicemail to the effect that they had forgiven the debt of my daughter’s tuition – and this was not a trivial amount.

There are more examples; some trivial, some not so trivial. It is incredible to me the regard people who knew us held for Kim and I, and, equally incredible: the caring regard of complete strangers – I continue to be grateful – both for that regard, and for its exposition which, in light of current events, restores my faith in and hope for humanity.

But, to the point: people are inherently good. Few are not moved by the situation I find myself in. Keep that in mind as you go through similar. Even perfect strangers suffer the loss with you, if only briefly during, say, a phone conversation about a CPAP machine. With all the negative things being advertised by our alleged media, be buoyed to know that for every scumbag, there is a literal army of good folks out there – even some you wouldn’t imagine were there.

On the loss of intimacy and things related

One thing I noticed in reading about my new role as “widower” is how little the subject of the lost intimacy is treated. It is not THE most prominent facet of my grief, but it is way up there, and I don’t think I’m abnormal. Why so little information regarding how others have dealt with this? Is it taboo to speak of these things?

Kim and I enjoyed a frequent and regular intimate life – as, I would expect, most married couples our age do. We weren’t like foaming-at-the-mouth honeymooners in our intimacy, but we did enjoy each other. And we knew each other and what we responded to, and how we responded to it. We had the consideration that comes with a decades-long relationship to take the care and the time needed to ensure each was satisfied.

And intimacy is more than just sex. Holding each other closely is also intimacy. Coming up behind your partner as they are doing something and giving a warm hug around the waist and a kiss on the neck is a form of intimacy. Knowing what your partner is thinking and responding to it is a form of intimacy. There is so much that is now lost! Over 30 years of learning some (because you can never know all…) of what makes each other “tick”.

But the loss of sexual intimacy is an important aspect of my grief. The urges are still there, but there is nothing to satisfy them – like the phantom pains of an amputated limb that you cannot relieve. For a couple of weeks after Kim passed – and a week or so before she passed – the thought of sex was a constantly recurring, nagging urge that tormented me, particularly at night, but also in the morning.

We had not had relations since before the Folfirinox failed, when she still “felt good,” but Kim was still there – we could talk, hold hands, hug, kiss… The thought of anything more at the time, at least to my mind, was tempered with the nature of Kim’s disease as it evolved: it would be painful for her. The pressure in her abdomen from the tumors and the ascites. Lymphedema, too, causing swelling and pain in her limbs and back. The thought of such contact really did not occur during this period. So, I had a time of conditioning that one would think may have tempered that part of my grief. So why the ferocious “need”? The human mind is a fascinating, but scary thing.

To those treading these same waters, there’s hope: it passes. At least it seems to have for me. It is now just over a month since Kim left, and, about a week ago, I noted that that particular torment seems to have subsided. I still have moments where I can think of little more, but they are just passing thoughts, much as normal males experience under ordinary conditions. I did not have to go out and “find another partner” as some would tell you to do. It just calmed; it passed.

It very well may recur, but now I have the armor of knowing that it does resolve without any form of intervention. Hopefully, this discussion can serve to give you similar armor.

And this, too, shall pass…

Grief is an odd thing. It comes over you in waves, like a storm surge. But as with a storm, those waves subside. Occasionally, after the storm, a large wave will still come to the shore, swamping everything it touches – but most of the waves are smaller over time. And anniversaries of life events – that first date, engagement, marriage, birthdays, death – and holidays are like the tides, bringing surges in at regular intervals.

Most events pass through our lives like ships through the water. Some leave a wake that quickly flattens and disappears. Some: no wake at all. Others pass through like an ice skate cutting lines in the ice. The edges of those lines are sharp and painful, but over time, with wear and warmth, the edges become less defined, rounder – less painful – until they finally disappear.

The death of a spouse is like a craftsman cutting a line in glass. The edges will only dull with time and wear. But they will dull.

Our wedding anniversary was 30 December. It was not as hard as I had expected it to be, so soon after Kim’s passing. Christmas and New Year’s Eve were actually a lot harder. Someone said that the day would be a sad day for me, but I had to disagree – it was still a happy day; the day Kim and I started our life together and our beautiful family.

And that family – our five kids and our granddaughter – are probably the reason why my grief is not the dominating factor in my life after Kim. They buoy me up. They surrounded me from the start, having implemented “Family Friday” immediately after Kim’s diagnosis. A new tradition in which one of the kids is the designated “chef du jour” and concocts a meal for the whole gang that they bring to Kim’s and my house where the whole family gathers to eat and make merry. Some of those events lasted into the wee hours; some just a few hours. Every one is a wonderful gathering for us all.

Kim really enjoyed those Fridays, and we wondered why it took her imminent departure for us to make that tradition. A tradition that, so far, we are continuing.

The kids gathered in force and went to the funeral parlor with me to make arrangements for Kim. They helped choose her casket (Kim wanted a white one with gold trim), vault, and the clothes she would wear into eternity. They surrounded me and were my strength during the viewing, the funeral mass and interment. My son set up shop on my kitchen table and worked from my home every day until Christmas. My daughter took over the Christmas shopping and decorating so that there would still be Christmas in our home as my heart just wasn’t into doing any decorating this year (though I did eventually pull out three of Kim’s homemade decorations and put them on display).

Even today, I can count on one or more of them to come up from behind and give me a supportive hug, or to just be around, keeping me company.

I can’t imagine what this would have been like had I no children.

And so it begins…

The date is 18 April 2020. Kim isn’t feeling right, and hadn’t been for at least a month. But COVID. She didn’t want to bother her doctor with what she thought was an ulcer. 18 April 2020. Kim is just so uncomfortable. She finally calls our family doctor and explains her symptoms. Suspecting a bowel blockage, he advises her to go to the hospital to get checked out. But COVID.

My daughter being a critical care nurse already dealing with COVID patients, we figured she’d have the best chance of being allowed to accompany Kim to the emergency room, so she took Kim instead of me. No dice, though – she isn’t allowed to accompany her into the hospital. Kim is admitted, all kinds of tests, a CAT scan… A text hits my phone from Kim: they think it’s cancer.

18 April 2020. When she is admitted and is brought to her room, she calls me. “I have cancer,” her voice came across the ether with a pleading note. I’m dumbstruck. “They think it’s pancreatic.” I’m devastated. My beautiful wife – my life partner – has just received what amounts to a death sentence, and I’m 30 miles away. Because of COVID.

18 April 2020. I pray – I beg God – that it is not pancreatic cancer. I can see her test results through the patient portal. A tumor marker – Antigen 19-9 – is over two hundred times higher than what is considered high baseline. It is definitely cancer, and, because 19-9 is its harbinger, it’s pancreatic.

They keep Kim over the weekend to get her electrolytes back in order. We have several Facetime visits – it’s the best we could do because COVID mandates disallow any visitors. Since I know the Ring doorbell buzzes her phone every time someone moves on the porch, the kids and I take a second at the door to tell her we love her before continuing in or out – just in case she peeks in on the app.

And then, on Tuesday, the consult – via Facetime – with the hospital oncologist. It’s definitely pancreatic, and it has spread to her liver. As is typical with that ugly disease, it has metastisized before presenting any symptoms. The doctor describes the standard of care, which is predominantly chemotherapy to extend life. Life expectancy was cited as 3-6 months without treatment; 11 months with.

We got about seven and a half.

They discharged Kim on Wednesday. I picked her up, and we drove home. Oddly, I cannot remember anything from that trip besides her being brought to the car in a wheelchair, and everyone wearing masks.

We consult with two other oncologists – one suggested by our doctor, and one treating a friend’s aunt for pancreatic cancer over the past seven years. Both say pretty much the same thing the hospital oncologist did. There were also no first-line trials active and open at the time. We decided to stay with the oncology department of the hospital who initially saw Kim.

Due to COVID, there was a long delay in getting a port and starting chemotherapy, too. After what seemed an eternity, they finally put the port in 8 May, and she had her first chemotherapy session at the hospital – their local cancer clinic was closed (you guessed it!) due to COVID – on the 11th. She had opted to pursue the more aggressive therapy for pancreatic cancer – Folfirinox. Chemo every other week.

Kim actually did very well on this regimen. She was a bit wiped out on day 3, after the take-home pump was removed, but only got physically sick from it after her first treatment – this likely having more to do with the half hour drive, as she was always prone to carsickness.

God didn’t forsake us, either. Despite not granting me the miracle I constantly prayed for with “Garden of Gethsemane” fervor, he did arrange things to make this ordeal easier on us than it could have been.

I had spent the majority of our 30 years together on the road for my employer, Ford Motor Company, launching vehicle body production systems in far flung plants. Even when I lucked into an assignment at one of our local plants, it still meant 12-14 hour days pretty much seven days a week – I had just finished one of those in January when my employer decided it was high time I “flew a desk” and headed up a section of engineers in the home office.

Then, due to COVID, my work had been moved from the office 20 miles away to a workstation in my family room. I was home 100% of the time, and able to give Kim whatever care she required. Many meetings were held using my iPhone and my Surface behind the wheel of my pickup truck as I sat parked at the hospital where I had just dropped Kim for an appointment, a procedure, a test…

It sounds funny, but, in this regard, the COVID hysteria was a godsend. My management also gave me a lot of latitude with my assignments and deliverables which helped a lot with caring for Kim.

And, until mid-October, Kim was fairly strong and ambulatory. We took at least daily walks through the neighborhood, picking up gum tree seed pods and pinecones for her next craft project – pinecone wreaths for the girls! We also went through the local park with her iPhone on a selfie stick so that she could have some recent pictures with us together (and our youngest daughter). We would sit on the couch together evenings, holding hands and watching the 1960s series “Dark Shadows”, laughing at its campiness, but still fascinated enough with it to watch episode after episode. We unfortunately didn’t get the opportunity to finished watching the series.

Kim said we grew closer to each other during this period than we had been during our entire marriage, and, frankly, I have to agree.

And then came the next scan – the one we just knew would be full of good news! Not so: it showed that the growths in the liver had stopped, but those in the pancreas continued to grow. It was decided after a brief respite that they would switch to the less aggressive, but equal standard of care: Gemcitabine and Abraxane. Kim tolerated this chemo pretty well, too, but the neuropathy was hell for her – instead of the intensity of cold sensation that came with the Folfirinox, this one was taking feeling away from her.

Then the day came that Kim did not have enough feeling in her fingers to work on the quilt she was making for the car to use for winter chemo trips…

Her 12 October chemo was declined due to her blood numbers being too low. At her next palliative care appointment (one in which I got the building wrong, and made her very late), the doctor stated that it appeared the second course was destroying her liver. She suggested that Kim consider hospice, and then asked what I thought. And I simply broke down. It was 15 October.

Kim and I talked on the way home, and she decided that she agreed. She had had enough of the chemotherapy and its side effects. We drove around a little while to look at the fall colors that were all around, but then Kim had to use the bathroom, so we wrapped up our color tour and went home.

We were trying to decide on what hospice to pursue – we wanted in-home; not institutional, and were really ill-prepared to make this sort of decision – plus the hospices were having apparent difficulty getting any information to us via the (good ol’, dependable…) US Postal Service, so it went a bit longer than the Oncology department expected, I guess – when Kim had a lymphedema episode that scared her. She called the oncology department only to be told that she was a hospice patient now – call them. I was furious, but we called Angela Hospice, and they had their triage team out the following day – about 11 days after she opted for hospice.

Kim declined pretty quickly after that. Within a a few days, she could no longer make it up the stairs, even with my assistance. A hospital bed was brought in and set up in the front room, and I stationed myself in the easy chair in that room. She could still get up with my assistance to use the restroom, eventually requiring a walker, and me to help her get up off the toilet… then, when that became too much, a bedside commode. Sometime during this, I developed some vestibular issue which affected my balance. I opted to “deal with it” rather than take a chance on being pulled away from caring for Kim.

Kim started what the Hospice nurse called a “terminal fever” on 16 November. Her breathing was horrible to listen to and sounded so croupy. Eventually she coughed up some nasty yellow phlegm that I was able to clear from her mouth, and she settled into normal sounding breathing and looked rather comfortable. About this time, she could not manage the bedside commode and was catheterized. The only words I heard from Kim in her near comatose state after this was that she had to pee. She tried to say other things on occasion, but no sound came and, when I’d move my ear to her mouth, she hadn’t the energy to repeat it. Isn’t it crazy that those are the most vivid of the words I remember from her? “I have to pee” in a panicked whisper…

Eventually, Kim could no longer take sips of water or swallow her pain pills. There were three: two were available as liquids; one was not. I became quite expert at measuring out the liquid medications, then dissolving the third in them, then taking them all up into a syringe to squirt into Kim’s mouth every eight hours. At first it was easy as Kim could close her mouth around the syringe and swallow, followed by a syringe with water flavored with Body Armor or apple juice. Eventually, though, she was no longer cognizant of this activity, and care had to be taken to ensure (a) she didn’t choke on the medication and (b) that it didn’t simply run out of the side of her mouth. I lived terrified that she was in pain, and that I couldn’t tell nor do anything to help her.

The choking breathing returned about two weeks later, on the 29th of November. Her nurse was due to come in on the 30th, but called to say that she had been treating a patient with COVID, and would need to change her clothing; and asked if it would it be OK to stop in on the next day. I told her it really didn’t appear to matter, that I didn’t expect Kim to be here much longer. And, at around 2:42 am the next morning, 1 December, Kim left. I had awakened to use the bathroom, or perhaps it was because I sensed something different, but when I woke up, she was no longer breathing. Her fingers were still warm, so she couldn’t have been gone long. And she was smiling. By God, she was smiling!

It’s odd what the mind does at times like these; what we do. I arranged a blanket to nestle her head. I said a rosary, the Divine Mercies, and the St. Michael Chaplet over her. I removed Kim’s Miraculous Medal medallion and hung it on the crucifix next to our bed. I removed all the equipment that did not belong to the hospice from the room. And then I called the hospice to let them know she had passed. The woman on the other end was the initial nurse assigned to Kim when she entered hospice (we’d had two since).

A fourth hospice nurse arrived shortly after my call, checked what needed to be checked, disposed of the Class 2 medications, contacted the medical examiner and funeral parlor; and then left. Sometime during all of that, I contacted the kids and let them know. Those who lived out of our home began showing up – I had told the funeral home to give us until about 9:00 am to ensure we all got an opportunity to say goodbye. They came promptly at 9:00 am, moved Kim to a stretcher, and she took her final trip away from home.