Yesterday the hospice chaplain came to see my wife.
I intercepted her at the door because Ellen had made it crystal clear in advance that she wanted nothing to do with a chaplain, priest or rabbi.
The chaplain was so kind. She spent 15 minutes listening to my tale of woe about Ellen’s cancer, the endless cycle of futile treatments, her unrelenting pain and finally our admittance to hospice.
She said my wife in in good hands here – that the doctor and nurses would control her pain and make her comfortable for her remaining time.
She told me that nobody wants to die in hospice but that I had done the right thing bringing my wife here.
Then she asked how I was doing. I lied, “I’m OK.”
Then I lost it.
I am not OK.
Every day I am hit with waves of grief that rise up from my stomach into my chest. I can’t breathe, I can’t speak. I sob uncontrollably. It feels like my entire world is collapsing.
Because it is.
My wife is my one true love. She brought light, color, joy and unconditional love to my world that used to be bleak, gray and sad.
How am I?
I’m a wreck.
After a few minutes I get myself back under control.
Then she asks me, “How will you be after she passes?”
I said, “I’ll be fine. I’ve got my pets to take care of. I’ve got work that I need to take care of. I’ve got my son who I need to take care of.”
Then she asked, “But who will take care of you?”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Ellen always took care of me.