Love and Cancer

Easter Sunday, Gettysburg, 6"x6", oil on canvas

I don't even know where to begin. It's been rough lately. Chemo is no longer effective; tumors are growing. Fatigue is unending. What is caregiving? How does one hold joy when you live near the end of the road? Or is it all a chemo mirage?

How does one imagine a life without their beloved? That is really the question. Is it disloyal to fear the unknown? Am I jumping the gun? Will that jinx us?

My mind battles: I really cannot imagine life without Jim—to the point of anxiety. Fear sets in—how do I prepare for a life without him? He is my left lung. He is my heart. My mind. He is my hand. How will I breathe if he is not here? How will I walk, where would I go? How will I cook and who for? How will I take care of the pups, how will I take care of our home? How will I be tender? Who will continue? Intense midnight prayers to my Mom and Mary—women who knew—still my heart. As Paul McCarthy sang "Mother, Mary come to us, let it be, let it be..."

Today I thought that I simply will not. I'll stop. I'll hole up in our home, until tears no longer flow. I  will finish our journey and drive our camper across the country though this terrifies me. Jim bought the camper and cars so we might do this but is supposed to be our journey. And yet this is our journey.

Stop brain! Jim is still here with me!
Yet not. So much is changed.

I can see clearly how the cancer and the drugs transform him into a different yet the same Jim. My love who always had such optimism and energy. Is it the cancer or the drugs that take this away? I have no answers only a final question: how do I support the one I love? Such a large task for one who is grieving inside.

I prepare for both worst and best. I look into all options. If one thing is sure,  Jim deserves only the best. And the next true thing. I do not know how I can go forward without this most amazing Jim. Love is indeed tough. Dearest I love you a googleplex and always.