Isn’t Two years ago we found out Bob had lymphoma. When I was first told, a thousand thoughts bounced around in my head. How would Bob handle this? How could I tell our daughters? Who could I turn to for advice? Which hospital? Which doctor? Not once did I allow myself to think too far into the future. I kept my questions to now, tomorrow, next week. I’ve always kept calm in a crisis. Okay, we have a problem. How can we solve it? What’s next? I couldn’t allow the ramifications of what I had just heard into my thoughts, not even a little. One step at a time.
Bob’s reaction was what I expected. He’d been brought up by worriers. He broke down. His reaction was, “What I always feared has happened.” I felt so helpless. I saw his pain. I wanted to make everything better. I said I understood, but I really didn’t. I wondered how I would have reacted had it been me. I wanted him to be strong, to say, “We’ll fight this together,” just like in the movies.
Telling the girls was hard. Bob couldn’t. It was up to me. They took it badly. I had to be strong so they could lean on me. I called on my stoic upbringing-keep your guard up, hold your feelings in. If I broke down, it would have been too much for them to bear.
Norma, a close friend who had intestinal cancer the year before, recommended books by Bernie Siegel and other positive thinkers and relaxation tapes. They helped me. They reaffirmed my belief in positive thinking, never allowing the inner thoughts, the negative ones, to surface. Bob tried but finally rejected this approach. Imagery, affirmations-I put notes all over the house. He laughed at me kindly and let me “do my thing.” He even appreciated my efforts.
There were extra hugs and kisses, hand squeezing and holding, looks of love, sympathy, compassion. Not many words were exchanged. Was it that they weren’t needed or that they couldn’t be said? Bob took care of wills, insurance, stocks, and so forth. We talked about them matter-of-factly, never admitting why we were suddenly doing this.
Bob had a curable type of lymphoma. The odds were good. I maintained my positive outlook. He was hospitalized for his first treatment so his reactions could be monitored. Both girls were there. How important family is at these times! I still felt I had to keep up the facade, to play the role of martyr-everything will be all right. It was so hard to see the person I love, whom I’ve spent so much of my life with, helpless, weak, and frightened.
We received wonderful support from friends and family. The phone never stopped ringing. Bob spoke to everyone and cried each time. He seemed to like the attention. Did he enjoy the sympathy? The less I talked, the better I liked it. There was a point when I didn’t want to answer the phone. I wanted to scream, “Enough! How many times can you talk about it? Why go over it again and again? Stop wallowing and get on with it!” I had to stop myself. He was fighting for his life. How dare I tell him how to do it?
There were two Bobs-the one I saw and the brave face he put on for everyone else. He’d leave for work (part time) feeling cranky and tired and impatient, only to appear at the office cheerful and brave. I’d get calls telling me how wonderfully he was accepting this awful thing. To me he was grumpy, sad, angry, and at times unkind. We all have different faces for different places. I know that. But why couldn’t he try on that happy face for me?
He underwent sixteen weeks of chemotherapy as an outpatient. Those days were awful. One of the medications Bob was taking didn’t allow him to sleep, so I didn’t sleep. He managed to make enough noise to wake me and keep me up. His pills were all over the house. He jumped and yelled if I moved them. I confided in our daughter, who urged us to join a support group. Bob refused. He couldn’t face being with other cancer patients. Why couldn’t I understand? He was the one who had this awful sickness. What was I so mad about?
Halfway into Bob’s treatment, I had an accident.
Coming out of a driveway, I misjudged the speed of an oncoming car. My car was totaled. A few inches more and I, too, would have been totaled. How did this happen? Too much on my mind, overworked, overtired, and stressed out. In all the time of Bob’s illness, and even to this day, only two people have asked how I was. People wait until Bob leaves the room and whisper, “How’s he doing? He seems to be handling it so well.” The accident was my way of saying, “Here I am, look at me, I need attention too.” Fortunately, no one was hurt. I realized I couldn’t go on like that. Bob and I talked and talked about me, the things I was holding inside. We both knew we needed help. We had to face our mortality. We began to see a therapist.
I found a support group for spouses and caregivers of cancer patients. Thank heaven for those wonderful people. It was a small group, some men, mostly women. We could honestly tell each other how we felt. I could finally be open about my feelings. I felt safe there.
The sixteen weeks of chemo finally ended and all of the tests came back okay. He gained weight and began to feel like himself again. Did we go back in time to where and who we were before this thing? No. He says cancer is always on his mind. Every time he goes for a checkup he becomes withdrawn, angry. I understand. Every ache and pain makes him think the cancer has returned.
Has he changed? Yes. So have I. His feelings about life are different, his sense of what’s really important. I thought he’d take better care of himself. Instead he overeats. He loves good food but doesn’t exercise. He spends more money than he should. Doesn’t he care about me, about us? I’m tired of nagging. I’ve become more independent. Are we closer now? Sometimes I think so, sometimes I’m not sure. We sti1llove each other, but this experience didn’t deepen our love, which makes me sad.
How wonderfully romantic the storybook version is. In reality it doesn’t happen that way.
It hasn’t always been easy. There were times I felt trapped. There was never a time, however, when I wanted to get out of the trap. They say love grows stronger when two people have shared trials and tribulations, and I agree. I love you more now than I did when we were twenty. I love you more because I know you better, and you know me more than I know myself. Our love is easy. I know I can go off the deep end and you won’t leave me. You’ll eventually point out my failings, but you won’t leave. That’s comforting. You’ve made our home a nice place to be, you’ve made our children nice people, and you’ve even made me nicer.
It eventually dawned on me that you were trapped as well. We were trapped together, and we could escape together. And we have. So I’m glad I’m trapped. I love you. 