Damn Cancer
By Nancy Tatum
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Damn Cancer - Nancy Tatum
days.
DAMN CANCER
I buried my husband in Arlington National Cemetery today. He was 58 years old. It should have been me. Damn cancer.
ONE
As we walked through the woods again, this time was different. So different that it broke my heart. When we walked this path just a month before the diagnosis, his pace was steady. He seemed healthy, strong. We stopped occasionally to look for birds or to pick a wildflower. He loved the outdoors. While stationed in Europe, when he was in the Army, he participated in Volksmarches: non competitive six mile walks. At the end of each walk he received a ribbon or patch. He had a gallon baggy stuffed full of the patches. I surprised him for the first birthday we celebrated together. I snuck the patches from his dresser drawer and sewed them onto a blanket I had made for him. That blanket kept him warm as he sat at his computer, working on bills or catching up on daily events. He was healthy then. I never dreamed that eight years of marriage would end with his untimely death. Damn cancer.
He died on a Monday. So now, each Monday I say, It’s been two weeks since Jim died. It was four weeks ago that Jim took his last breath. I can’t believe it’s been eight weeks since Jim died.
He’s been gone now for ten weeks. I’m still counting. Probably will for quite sometime. They say the first year is the worst. Each anniversary of some special event, I’ll play that game of this is what we were doing on this day.
Makes me feel pretty sick inside. Lonely. Sad.
Grief. The definitions are somewhat specific and limited. Getting through the grief is not. You can look in any number of books or even Google the word. Briefly stated, grief is the reaction to loss. Mine has run the gamut from denial to sadness then actually believing he is gone and then WHAM! Right back to denial again. He’s gone. I know it every time I sit at the kitchen table to eat…alone. Every time I drive his SUV and I don’t have to adjust the position of the driver’s seat. Each and every day I miss his phone call to check in to see how I’m doing.
TWO
It’s been three and a half months since Jim died. I’ve lost track counting the Mondays that have gone by. It’s either 14 or 15 now. It just doesn’t seem real that he’s gone. I have two photos of him on the refrigerator. Photos that
say everything about him. His eyes squinting closed because his smile is so big. It nearly kills me to look at them. One of my dearest friends lost her 26 year old daughter to cancer several years ago. There is a memorial to her in their home in each room. I don’t know how she does it, everyday, passing by, looking at the photos, reminding herself of what she no longer has. I guess none of us needs any kind of reminder though. It’s there, either lurking in the shadows or so evident in my everyday blah blah blah that sometimes I just want to sit and cry and stare at the walls. Always there, photos or not. I feel miserable inside today. I don’t cry everyday, thank goodness. I’m quite capable of carrying on with