A Letter to My Dead Husband: Beginnings of My Healing Journey

A Letter of Love After Loss

I wrote this letter four months after my husband died in December 2021. I desperately needed the opportunity to say the things I did not say when he was alive because he left us so swiftly at the end.

The thing about death is that it highlights the injustice and lack of control we face when a loved one dies. There is no pause button, no re-runs, and we must watch in slow motion as the person we love slips away from us.

This immensely personal glimpse into my husband's battle and ultimate death is as much for me as it is for anyone else who may be amid this nightmare.

Say the things you need to say, and do not lose yourself so much in the hardship that you miss the opportunities we did.

Dearest B,

I am writing to you to aid me in navigating this debilitating grief process. According to the experts, this will help heal me from your loss. I hope to learn to live without you; this grief will not destroy me.

After your initial diagnosis, we were adamant and confident that we would beat cancer. Later, as we progressed through the treatment processes, that relentless positivity faded into hope. The treatment failed us repeatedly, but we were hopeful, right to the end, of at least a remission.

That remission never came, so we never did discuss that you might not make it. We never discussed funeral arrangements and how you would like that to evolve. We never once spoke about you dying throughout these past two years.

I am struggling right at this moment. When you died, I switched immediately into coping mode. With the help of our fantastic friends, I just got on with the necessary arrangements and made longer-term plans to celebrate your life with our boys and their girls when and if we ever could, COVID permitting.

I have been thinking a lot this past week as a tidal wave of grief overwhelmed me. We never got to say goodbye.

It was Friday, and I had asked the community nurse to have our GP call as your pain levels and confusion were increasing at an alarming rate.

Balancing the Oxy was challenging, and I felt out of my depth. I knew it caused you to be confused and angry, but I was desperate to relieve your pain. It broke my heart to witness your discomfort.

That moment will be etched in my heart and brain forever.

We decided not to proceed with the chemo scheduled for the following Monday. After three months, it was clear that it was ineffective and did not produce the predicted results for this clinical trial.

There had been no improvement in your quality of life, and your general health was declining alarmingly. We spent the weekend in bed, with the shutters closed in our safe little world, coming to terms with your realisation.

However, we did not discuss the consequences of that decision.

You had it in your mind that the chemo was making you feel so unwell and that discontinuing it would give us maybe a few good months to enjoy life before the inevitable.

I was happy with that decision but not confident of your vision.

You see, I was watching from the outside. I knew the reality of how sick you were. You were your usual positive and robust self, mentally. Unrelentingly believing you would get better. But physically, the change in you was dramatic.

That weekend in bed was traumatic for you and me. I was too scared to voice what I felt was the reality of the situation, as I admired your continued positivity and hope. So, on the Monday morning when you could not make it to your oncologist appointment, I knew this was the beginning of the end.

But how could we have known the end would be so swift? Although I am grateful you were no longer suffering, I am so sad we never really got to say goodbye.

I ache at how lost and frightened you looked as you were taken from me by ambulance for that final journey. Thanks to COVID, I could not go with you.

You were barely conscious when I arrived at the hospital the next day.

With your consent, the oncology team came to your room in the afternoon, and we agreed to discontinue all treatment.

It was all so clinical, and I was angry with V and N, our oncology nurses, for just standing there like cold statues. I expected more after all we had been through together in the past 18 months. I have not heard from them since you died, which makes me angry.

You lapsed into a fitful, morphine-induced coma the minute we finished that conversation.

It took five days to balance medication so that you were relaxed and comfortable. Sadly, during this time, we had no opportunity to talk.

I just sat by your bedside, holding your hand and telling you how much you are loved.

I am heartbroken now. I failed you. I became so focused on being your caregiver that I forgot about being your wife and best friend. I worry that I did not show my love for you in all my grief and anxiety over your illness. It is a balancing act, and I failed.

I need you to know that you are everything to me.

I am so bloody sad, and the tidal waves of grief that strike me are just so severe some days that I cannot drag myself up and spend days in bed. You will not be surprised to hear our family have been my rock, talking me down off the cliff on more than one occasion.

Despite my debilitating grief and sadness at my loss, I am determined not to wallow in self-pity for too long. I know that is not what you would want.

I can still hear your voice cheering me on, and I look for you on my walks—a bird on a branch, a floating feather, a rainbow, or a beautiful dragonfly buzzing around my head. Keep coming to me. I will always love you.

View from our bedroom window on that fateful day.