A letter to my brother, whose wife is dying
Your wife is dying. She has had ovarian cancer for some years now. She has fought it so hard, but she is nearing the end now.
And it's been so quick. Almost overnight she has gone from being someone who, if you didn't know better seems completely well, to someone who is dying.
I spoke to her yesterday and she told me how you have turned into Supermum, looking after the boys and the house. Always so strong and so capable taking it all in your stride. When we ask you how you are you always say 'fine'.
But how angry you must be that this was Anna's path and that you were to walk it with her. It's one of those awful things that you always think happen to other people. How many times you must ask yourself 'Why us? Why me?'
You keep so strong in the face of all this. But I wonder what is it like when you are alone with your thoughts. So seldom do you let anyone in to see. A glimpse occasionally - I remember at the wedding we went to last month, how you commented at the end that you had been cursing throughout the service, bitter that your marriage vows were to be cut so short. You've barely got started, and now you have so little time left.
How unfair life can be. Those plans you made. Those dreams you dreamed. You were going to return to the UK and live in a cottage. I imagined our children seeing more of each other. You both went for a drive when we were all in Devon last month and afterwards said you had found Anna's house - a stone cottage with a walled garden. Except it never will be Anna's house and we all know that.
I remember how I felt when I first heard the news. Like I was choking on the shock and the grief. It felt inescapable, like being trapped, or drowning. And with that was the awful knowledge that whatever I was feeling was nothing - nothing at all - compared to what you and your wife were going through. And that was quite terrifying.
I can't do anything to make things better. I can't take away what is happening to you. But I want you to know that although there is no way I can understand what it is really like for you, I think of you all the time.
I send you love and strength to help you get through these next few weeks, months and years - and with help from us all I hope you are, or at least one day will be, 'fine'.
And it's been so quick. Almost overnight she has gone from being someone who, if you didn't know better seems completely well, to someone who is dying.
I spoke to her yesterday and she told me how you have turned into Supermum, looking after the boys and the house. Always so strong and so capable taking it all in your stride. When we ask you how you are you always say 'fine'.
But how angry you must be that this was Anna's path and that you were to walk it with her. It's one of those awful things that you always think happen to other people. How many times you must ask yourself 'Why us? Why me?'
You keep so strong in the face of all this. But I wonder what is it like when you are alone with your thoughts. So seldom do you let anyone in to see. A glimpse occasionally - I remember at the wedding we went to last month, how you commented at the end that you had been cursing throughout the service, bitter that your marriage vows were to be cut so short. You've barely got started, and now you have so little time left.
How unfair life can be. Those plans you made. Those dreams you dreamed. You were going to return to the UK and live in a cottage. I imagined our children seeing more of each other. You both went for a drive when we were all in Devon last month and afterwards said you had found Anna's house - a stone cottage with a walled garden. Except it never will be Anna's house and we all know that.
I remember how I felt when I first heard the news. Like I was choking on the shock and the grief. It felt inescapable, like being trapped, or drowning. And with that was the awful knowledge that whatever I was feeling was nothing - nothing at all - compared to what you and your wife were going through. And that was quite terrifying.
I can't do anything to make things better. I can't take away what is happening to you. But I want you to know that although there is no way I can understand what it is really like for you, I think of you all the time.
I send you love and strength to help you get through these next few weeks, months and years - and with help from us all I hope you are, or at least one day will be, 'fine'.
posted by solveig at
9:53 pm
5 Comments:
Thats a very moving post... Sending your brother, his wife and all of you strength to go through this terrible life challenge. Very very sad for all of you and especially him and their children... xxx
my auntie died of ovarian cancer almost a year ago. Even at 62 it felt too harsh a punishment, too early an end - it seemed there was still so much for her to experience. So how it feels for your sister-in-law, your brother and the boys, I can only imagine.
Thanks for the comments. S x
I've just found this post, so beautifully written and so, utterly tragic. I'm so sorry for you all, and so moved by how you've described your feelings.
Love, Paula x
@Paula - thanks so much for your comment. It is all utterly crap at the moment!
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