My entry into widowhood began in 2002 when our family was enjoying a long-awaited summer vacation in Hawaii and my husband Steve noticed he was having trouble swallowing.  It wasn’t just that it was hard to swallow, but it actually hurt.  He promised to get it checked out when we returned home.  But neither of us expected the first two words that came out of the doctor’s mouth when he returned for his lab results:  “It’s cancer.”

What?  How could this be?   Just a few weeks earlier Steve had been surfing, snorkeling, hiking all over Kauai.   Now the doctor was telling us that Steve had a relatively rare form of cancer, but that there were treatments they’d start immediately and we’d hope for the best.

Unfortunately, despite intense chemo and the most advanced radiation treatment available, three months after the diagnosis, when they went in for surgery to just clean up any remaining cancer cells, the surgeon discovered that it had spread throughout his entire abdominal cavity, wrapped itself around his heart, and was inoperable.   Instead of trying to remove the cancer, the surgeon then spent the next nine hours crafting an alternative esophagus, so that during Steve’s remaining time on earth he’d at least be able to swallow, something he hadn’t been able to do for the last few months.

By the time the surgeon finally walked into the waiting room, I was the only person remaining.   He slowly shook his head… and answered my unasked question:   “Three to six months.”

Up until that point, I’d remained steadfastly optimistic, knowing deep in my bones that Steve was strong, that he was going to beat this.   Yes, he was very sick but he was going to bounce back, just as he had done when he’d had a detached retina, a collapsed lung, a shattered elbow, or any number of other acute crises that took him to the emergency room at least once a year.

I never could have imagined the staggering pain I’d feel when I heard that doctor announce the results of the surgery:   I felt as if someone had plunged a dagger deep into my heart.

From that point, the pain only got worse.   As Steve began his slow recovery from surgery, I tried to remain upbeat for him, but my heart was weeping.  I’d drive back and forth to the hospital, and my route took me past a long series of cemeteries, which would further remind me of Steve’s impending fate.   After being with him all day at the hospital, I would drive home, trying to figure out how to go on, how to stay focused on the present, while my beautiful husband was still here, rather than jumping into all the uncertainties of the future.

I felt so alone during that time, and the pain — of knowing that I’d soon be losing my best friend, my companion for more than half my life, my sweetheart — was tearing me up inside.   I couldn’t allow myself to believe it, even though my heart knew otherwise.   One night, the tears wouldn’t stop, and I found myself 20 miles north of my freeway exit before I even realized where I was…

Through it all, I tried to hold it together for our daughters, who were 16 and 18 at the time, so that even though their Daddy was sick, they’d have someone strong they could still lean against.

Exactly three months after the surgery, on February 19, 2003, Steve died, at home, with me and our two daughters at his side.

I thought I’d experienced pain before.  Wrong.   It was just a light precursor to what I felt after he died.   The pain was so intense, I thought I would die too.

But I had a problem:   I had no idea how to deal with all the feelings I was having…   I’d grown up in a wonderful, tight-knit family.   Like many Americans, the only permissible feelings were “Don’t make a scene” and “Do you want something to cry about?”   If we had a sour face, we were to turn that frown upside down, into a smile.   And if we really did have something to cry about, we were to do it in private, so as not to disturb anyone.

And I felt like crying all the time.  Even though, yes, there was an initial period of numbness, as that rapidly wore off, the pain threatened to overwhelm me:

I felt lonely.

I felt bereft.

I felt abandoned.

I felt angry (at Steve, for leaving me; at the doctors, for not curing him; at God, for letting this all happen… the list goes on!).

I felt sad.

I felt guilty (why hadn’t I insisted on alternative therapies?   why hadn’t I let Steve know how much I appreciated him?).

I felt exhausted.

I felt isolated.

Oh, the list of feelings I experienced so intensely could go on and on.   (And I’m sure yours could too!)   The reality is that even five years later, I continue to experience these feelings at times, sometimes with the same ferocious intensity as if Steve had just died moments earlier, and sometimes through a layer of healing that takes the sting out.

What I’ve learned: All these (and many more) feelings are normal when we have suffered a profound loss.   The key to healing is to not deny what we’re feeling, nor try to hide it in privacy.   I’ve found that I needed (and still need) to embrace those feelings as they arise, to really acknowledge them, give them the respect they are due.   I was feeling that way because I loved so deeply.   And to honor that love, I needed to really feel what was coming up, even if those feelings were incredibly uncomfortable.

What feelings did you experience when your spouse died? How are you dealing with those feelings?   And, how have those feelings changed in the time since the death?   I’d like to hear about your experiences…

Beverly Chantalle McManus lives in Northern California with her two daughters, who have each now graduated from college.  She is Vice President and Treasurer of the Board of Directors for the Open to Hope Foundation, a bereavement facilitator and core team member of the Stepping Stones on your Grief Journey Workshops, and a frequent speaker and writer on the topic of loss and grief.  In addition to grief support, she is also a marketing executive for professional services firms.

 

© 2008 Beverly Chantalle McManus
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Beverly Chantalle McManus

Beverly Chantalle McManus serves as Vice President and on the Board of Directors for the Open to Hope Foundation. She has over 25 years of experience as a marketing executive for professional services organizations, including some of the world’s largest legal, accounting, health care, consulting, architecture and engineering firms. She has edited and co-written numerous published books and professional articles across a range of topics. After the death of her husband Steve in 2003, she began focusing on grief and bereavement support, and for the past 13 years, has been a bereavement facilitator, and core team member of the Stepping Stones on Your Grief Journey Workshops. She is a frequent speaker and writer on the topic of loss and grief and is one of the featured writers for the Open to Hope website, for which she publishes a regular column. She has served on the Board of Directors of the San Francisco Waldorf School and is active in the community, arts, and civic enhancement initiatives. She and her two daughters reside in the San Francisco Bay Area.

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