My Husband's Last Words

"A second round of antibiotics and a subsequent scan revealed a suspected tumor on the periphery of his lung. I was driving home from work when he called to tell me, after I had asked if he received a new prescription. After four years of marriage, his subtle change in tone immediately signaled to me that something was terribly wrong. His words, "I'm so sorry," almost made me drive off the road."

"This nightmare occurred before smartphones, so I relied on a desktop computer to understand medical terms like "cytopathology" and differentiate between "core biopsy" and "needle biopsy." Without a science background, this new vocabulary was overwhelming. However, the word "cancer" was not new. My father had died in 1979 at age 30 due to a misdiagnosis, and I had convinced myself that I had already "paid my dues" to cancer and that this wouldn't happen again."

"Less than four weeks later, an oncologist told us my husband had less than seven months to live. He had advanced adrenal cancer. I distinctly remember counting on my fingers to determine what month that would be. Above all, he wished to die at home. To facilitate this, a hospital room was set up in our primary suite, complete with home hospice care. It was there that I learned to manage his care."

In late summer 2007 a persistent cough in the husband led from diagnoses of bronchitis to imaging that revealed a suspected lung tumor. An oncologist later diagnosed advanced adrenal cancer with a prognosis under seven months. The husband wished to die at home, so a hospital room was arranged in the master suite and home hospice care began. The spouse learned medical tasks, including administering sublingual morphine and tracking doses. The spouse relied on a desktop to decode unfamiliar medical vocabulary and recalled a father's early death by misdiagnosis. Grief became inevitable, and shared stories and language offered perspective and consolation.

Read at Psychology Today