Cancer Survivor

I realized something big today—I want to live again. I want to live. I did not die from cancer a year ago. My husband did, but I have been living like I was the one who was about to die. I have been scared, I have been closed off, I have been angry—I have been the one afraid to take the next step because I have been afraid of what might happen.

There is no protocol, no treatment, and no diagnosis for the ones who are left. We just try to keep going and make some sense of it all. We try to put one foot in front of the other and find some path to take that will make it feel normal again—whatever normal is anymore.

I am not the person I was November 6, 2007, the day before my husband was diagnosed. I have read that cancer survivors sometimes take the date they receive their medical notice that they are cancer free as their new birthday. I think that is a wonderful idea. I am trying to figure out what my new birthday is—but I don’t know if it is the first day I spent without Jeff, or is it the first time I slept through the night, or is it the first time I didn’t cry all through the day—or is it the first time I realized that Jeff was really gone. I want a new birthday because I want a new life. I have been living each day since March 26, 2008, as if maybe Jeff would be back if I were patient and good enough. Well, it’s been more than a year now and that’s just not going to happen.

I have focused on my children because they are my heart now. They are doing really well, but not because of me. They are thriving in spite of me. I am so tired and scared and worried and lonely. How can those characteristics equal a good mother?

Lately, I just want to close the front door to the house, put a for sale sign in the yard and move the three of us somewhere far away—Arizona, New Mexico, Maine, New Hampshire. Somewhere no one knows us and no one knows our past or our story. I can just be Holly with my two daughters Lauren and Ashtyn—relocating because I lost my job in Missouri and I need a new start.

I don’t want the looks anymore or the questions or the pity or the pat on the back for being so strong. I am not strong. I am not amazing. I am not anything special. My husband got sick and then he died. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. I will never be able to feel normal again. I will not be able to put it behind me and move on. I will not get past the guilt of being healthy. I will not get past the guilt of wanting to love someone again. I will not ever be who I was again. I don’t know who I am anymore—I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life. I am 43 years old, but I feel ancient. I don’t feel anything deeper than the surface—it’s like my soul is empty. I gave all I could to keep it together so Jeff could die peacefully and with the dignity that he deserved. I have tried to carry on his memory—his request for his life to have had meaning. But I am failing. This world is so jaded—I am shocked and deeply saddened that some of the things we could do to make it better for cancer patients are just regarded as the mutterings of a pitiful widow.

I don’t want to be the pitiful widow anymore. I want to move forward. I want to pack up Jeff’s clothes because he won’t be back for them. I want to move away from all the memories that are in every corner, every street, every face. I want to yell at Jeff for leaving me with a weed eater that doesn’t work and a tool bench that has eight hammers and 6,000 nails! I want to yell at him for leaving me to deal with his family that does nothing but judge me and ask for money that I don’t have to give. I want to yell at him for not being there to teach our daughters how to ride a bike and for not being there to be the male role model that they will need.

But I can’t do that—because Jeff didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. But one test—one stupid biopsy turned our world up side down.

So—I am angry. I am a cancer survivor—I survived my husband’s cancer. He did not. I want to live again. I want my life back. I just don’t know what that is anymore.