It’s never a good thing when the emergency room staff know you by name. Diane had been experiencing gastrointestinal issues for some time, and had visited the ER 27 times in the past year for nausea, vomiting and diarrhea. Over a nine-month period, her gastroenterologist performed two colonoscopies and an endoscopy. He finally came up with a diagnosis of arteriovenous malformations. “Don’t worry,” he said, “there’s no sign of cancer. Most people with this condition can lead a normal life.” In Diane’s case, he was wrong ― dead wrong.
March 1, 2022, was the day our lives changed forever. We thought it was just another visit to the ER. I was expecting the usual testing protocol: an injection of promethazine or Zofran for the nausea, followed by discharge. This time was different. An imaging test had revealed two spots on Diane’s liver ― probably cancerous, they said. I was stunned. Surely further testing would provide another explanation. It had been less than a month since the gastroenterologist did the endoscopy and found no malignancies.
Radiology confirmed the cancer diagnosis. Even worse, it was inoperable colon cancer that had spread to the liver, and the GI doctor somehow never saw it. My spouse, my wife of 52 years, my high school sweetheart was going to die, and there was nothing I or anyone else could do about it.
Supporting a loved one who is living with terminal cancer is the second hardest thing I’ve done in my 73 years on earth. The hardest thing for me was when Diane stopped living with it and started dying from it. The visual evidence of her decline and the relentless approach of her death was terrifying.
She tried her best. We were referred to a local cancer center, and the clinical team there assured Diane that the liver tumors were relatively small. She was an excellent candidate for chemotherapy. Another two years of life was a reasonable expectation. Three or four wasn’t out of the question. I felt a stirring of hope. Chemotherapy would give Diane the precious gift of time. Meanwhile, there was the possibility of new drugs, new discoveries, maybe even a cure. A light, however dim, was flickering at the end of the tunnel.
We confirmed an appointment for the chemo port procedure a few days later. When Diane canceled at the last minute, I was surprised and alarmed. The clock was ticking, the tumors were growing; we needed to do this now. At the same time, I didn’t want to push her. It wasn’t my body, my illness, or my decision to make. I breathed a sigh of relief when she rescheduled the appointment and kept it.
During this period I had begun researching and making inquiries to a few prominent cancer facilities, most notably the Mayo Clinic. I even asked our cancer office to send Diane’s records to one of the other hospitals I’d contacted. Nothing came of it; I didn’t hear back from any of them. Ultimately it was a moot point, because Diane said she wasn’t interested in traveling to receive treatment.
That ray of hope I’d felt didn’t last long. The chemo port was uncomfortable, and Diane was self-conscious about it. She finally stopped wearing a bra. That helped with the port problem, but did nothing to reduce her nausea from the treatment session. The discomfort was exacerbated when they sent her home with a portable unit that slowly dispensed the drugs through her port.
Diane’s next appointment was postponed because her iron levels were too low for the treatment. They gave her an injection to boost the iron and rescheduled the session. That’s when Diane told me she was done with chemo for good.
“It took some time for me to realize that a few quality months of life was a gift she wanted to give both of us.”
At the time, I viewed her decision as a death wish ― a rejection of the life we had together. Would she really rather accelerate the timeline of her death than have more time with me and our daughter? I accepted and supported Diane’s decision, but I…
Read More: My Wife Of 52 Years Just Died. My Grief Is So Overwhelming, I Can Barely Cope.