Rachel Williams said:No one is ever truly ready—it’s just not how it works. Neither those who are suffering nor those of us standing by them are ever asked if we feel prepared or capable of handling it... it simply is what it is, and we have to brace ourselves and face it head-on if we don't want things to get even harder for our loved ones. Our own feelings aren't the priority here.
That is exactly right 👍. You have to stay strong and somehow find the grit to keep going. For instance, this month marks five months since I lost my boyfriend. To be honest, I don't even know when that feeling of emptiness will pass. I don't know how I managed to navigate through all of it, either. Even while he was still alive, I found myself constantly wondering what lay ahead. Once the diagnosis hit, I was terrified of what would happen when he became immobile or helpless, and eventually, the crushing thought of life without him. On the other hand—he was such an incredibly positive, optimistic soul—which gave me this flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he could pull through this fight. None of us ever let him see us cry or show any sign of weakness, but then again, he was that way too, so I suppose that influenced how we all acted. I was by his side constantly (thankfully, I didn't have a job at the time), and his family was always there as well, so he was never alone. Despite everything, we actually had a beautiful year together. We went everywhere together; I accompanied him to radiation sessions, and we endured chemo together—he actually tolerated it quite well, so we didn't deal with many major complications.
When the reality set in—when they discovered the cancer had returned—it was a massive shock. He didn't want to see me or even take a call, which, looking back, I completely understood. Once he started the radiation and chemo again, it was as if he had settled into this deep sense of optimism. He never once spoke about how he was feeling mentally or what was racing through his mind. It wasn't until they stopped the Temozolomide and switched him to IV chemo that he finally told me the truth: he was terrified of how this was all going to end. And it didn't end well; he didn't make it to the second cycle of IV treatment. He was gone almost overnight.
Unfortunately, we can't control everything in our lives. It is incredibly difficult when you find yourself in a situation like this. But those of us who are healthy must find the strength for our loved ones—I don't know where it comes from, but we have to find it. I have a sister who has been completely paralyzed following an accident; we've been caring for her at home for 17 years now (she's 41). I can't even bear the thought of putting her in some facility; we know how much being home with us means to her. She can't speak, but she finds ways to show us exactly what she's feeling.
As for me, I am slowly moving forward. I started a new job, so I stay busy, but I still think of him a hundred times a day. Everything still reminds me of him, and I still have his number saved in my iPhone. I have this strange sensation, as if he's still out there somewhere—it's all very surreal.
After he passed, I spent a lot of time reading through this thread, and it really helped me. It felt a little easier to breathe knowing I wasn't alone in these experiences. I only have one close friend I can talk to openly and just break down with, so having this community has been a huge help.
