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The link to this page was shared
with you because someone wanted you to know those battling
cancer are never alone...never.
We don’t know you, but we
know your journey
Copyright Robert Bean & Sons (C) 2017
Some personal and vulnerable
words for those who have loved ones facing their final
days...know there are many of us who don’t know you, but we
know your journey
I remember the first call
She, 31 years old with our two young boys at home
Me away on business
Alone and afraid she says, “I have cancer, can you come
home?”
I offer, “I’ll be home tomorrow”
She says, “Can you come tonight, they operate tomorrow”
It’s serious
She cracked a joke about me not dying on the way home, we
laughed, I cried silently
We don’t know you, but we know your journey
I’m there when they bring her out
The tumour, the size of a fastball, the incisions twice the
size
Our chances of more children gone
Over the next 18 years her body repeatedly disfigured by an
accumulation of seemingly innocent skin surgeries…no patch
of skin untouched
In the presence of others she would say the finger long scar
on her back was a knife wound inflicted by me…she winks, I
wince, we laugh, I cry silently
We don’t know you, but we know your journey
Then melanoma, she’s 49
The surgery removed her calf, she tells people a shark bit
her
During the next seven years the cancer moved through into
her groin and abdomen
Multiple difficult surgeries left us both scarred - her more
than me
She joked the weight control program was working…I joked
that I still had all my hair and teeth. We still loved each
other. All was good in the world. We laugh. I cry silently
We don’t know you, but we know your journey
She, now 53 years old, sees our
boys graduate from college hoping one day to see grandkids
Headaches, fatigue, lapse in memory drive us to the
emergency ward
The cancer has moved into her brain
Sitting there on the bed, her head shaved, and face bruised,
swollen, 28 staples tell the story
“Hi I’m from oncology” says the doc, without missing a beat
Karen says, “Hi I’m from neurosurgery”
She still has it...we laugh. I cry silently
We don’t know you, but we know your journey
The first of several masks are cast to hold her head down
against the stereotactic radiation table, laser beam
surgeries for controlling growth and swelling
She is prescribed dexamethasone…and suffers the worst of its
side effects. We all suffer with her. Leave or stay there is
no win. My vows running through my head only once, “Through
sickness and health till death do us part” I stay - it is so
hard to watch.
“Do you need a hand” I would ask her, “no, a brain…but not
your brain”. We laugh. I cry silently
We don’t know you, but we know your journey
She played her piano, a note missed - a sign of a new tumour
I say to her, “babe you're a little unstable on your feet”,
she replies, “would you rather I walk on my hands” She
smiles, I laugh
Christmas Eve it’s back to the hospital for another MRI
The tumours have spread throughout her body there are no
more options
She consoles the doctor, always comforting first those who
gave her bad news
With knowledge of her pending death, still in the hospital
she notices a young woman in stress, alone and in need of
help…her career social work skills kick in...she summons a
nurse for her…it’s in her character…it’s who she was
Home she returns with a supply of pain meds for her last
Christmas dinner
High as a kite, funny as ever, she squeals out HO HO HO
Merry Christmas!
Her uplifting spirit – her last gift to us - her best gift
of all
We all laugh, I cry silently
We don’t know you, but we know your journey
14 days later, we sneak her Kamie up to her hospital bed,
the little fur ball senses this is the last time she will
see her friend…the dog curls up beside her and lays still
The next morning, Karen takes her last breath while in our
arms
She had just turned 57
My son there in the room still holding her hand looks up at
me seconds after she passed, with a grin in his eyes but in
a deadpan voice says, “Hey, I heard you just lost your wife,
I am so sorry” We laugh out loud, we cry loudly, we know
Karen is watching and laughing. We cheer her on to her next
journey
The room is light, free of burdens, hers and ours, it’s as
if gravity has left us
We don’t know you, but we know your journey
My wife of 34 years battled cancer for 27 of them, we were
her army. Often times unprepared for what lay ahead. She
said cancer would never beat her because she would drag it
down with her…she succeeded…her courage built upon her faith
Sometimes it seemed like we were absent, but we were always
there behind her, beside her - every step of the way…if she
were here she would tell us to be kind to ourselves…
At only 5’4” she left this world with over 40” of surgical
scars...there were few parts of her body that were untouched
There are too many surgeries, MRI’s, PET scans and x-rays to
remember…the wound clinics knew her intimately...the
oncology team became her friends
She had claustrophobia, I held her ankle during every MRI
but one, and cleaned and bandage her wounds after each
operation...I learned to hide my fear and sadness
I grieved for her every time she was wheeled out into post
op and every time she went back in
Each hospital departure she would joke to administration
staff, talk to my husband he is my pay-pal…we would laugh, I
would cry silently
We don’t know you, but we know your journey
Left now are memories and a library of smart ass remarks we
have called Karenisms
Her form of emotional haiku that would cause us to explode
in anger, cry in sadness or pee our pants laughing…she was
so good
A wonderful wife, mother, daughter, sibling, aunt, friend
and colleague to those in Alberta Health Services
She
changed people’s lives, it was her calling
We would take long walks…talk about not being alone…she and
I never wishing loneliness on anyone…with her blessing I to
seek out and find another partner to grow old with
I used to think grief would be easy but it’s not. I lied to
myself and others that I was ready to move on but know now
its not that easy...for me, her passing hasn’t faded - life
just finds new roots and seems to grow outwards from grief's
boundaries
I have solace in the memories of her humour and that it
remains a gift within my sons
Her last laugh played out for her as we all sat around her
now still body…one of my sons says, “dad you’re dripping
from your nose, let me wipe that off", I replied, "as I get
older I’ll be dripping from all orifices", to which my other
son said, "I get dibs on the upper half”
We all laugh uncontrollably…it’s a classic - we know she is
with us – always
We don’t know you, but we know your journey
Wishing those families with pending loss to find peace and
tranquility in the laughter of our most precious loved ones
who try to make us strong as they themselves become weak…
We don’t know you, but we know
your journey |
