You never get used to loss
“Between grief and nothing, I will take grief.”—William Faulkner
Her husband sits bedside holding her hand and caressing her brow. She turns toward him, her eyes dimmed, her bones rising through pale clumps of flesh like tiny periscopes. “I’ll hold on as long as I can, but I can’t hold on forever”.
Tears leak from his eyes as a guttural sob rolls up from his belly. He anchors his cane, heaves himself into a standing position, bends over the bed, and kisses her on the cheek. Then, he leans to whisper in her ear. “Don’t you die, you hang in there. You never know what’s going to happen. God works miracles”. His legs quiver and he collapses into a chair. He is 87 years old, and she is 85; they have been married 65 years. Their only child, a daughter, died years ago. He has dutifully cared for her alone for two years, through chemotherapy, two surgeries, and multiple hospitalizations. He has bathed her, dressed her, fed her, toileted her, and put her to bed, and now he is weary and careworn.
“I’m trying sweetie, I really am”, she says. The truth is she is going to die within hours to days. Still, she is selfless, her words a refuge of hope affording him a moment of comfort. He glances at me and offers a nod and an anemic smile. He wants affirmation she will live, despite my repeated counsel she is dying.
He gestures for me to move close and murmurs, “Doctor, she’s the thread that has kept my life together, I can’t live without her, I just can’t. Please do what you can to keep her alive”. His despair is profound; I motion for him to step into the hall. He tells her, “Don’t you die, I’ll be right back”, then grabs his cane and shuffles out the door. I cradle his shoulders, offer my support, and gently reaffirm that she is dying. He looks away, weeping. He hears my words, but he does not hear them; however, he is not in denial, he is simply grieving. I hug him and inquire if he would like to have the chaplain visit again. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs his eyes. “No need for a chaplain”, he mutters, “but I want to tell you something. People think old folks are used to loss since we’re around death so much, but you never get used to losing someone, no matter your age”. He stuffs his handkerchief into his pocket, hobbles through the door, and resumes his vigil.
Acknowledgments
Funding: None.
Footnote
Provenance and Peer Review: This article was commissioned by the editorial office, Annals of Palliative Medicine for the series “The Human Experience”. The article did not undergo external peer review.
Conflicts of Interest: The author has completed the ICMJE uniform disclosure form (available at https://apm.amegroups.com/article/view/10.21037/apm-22-1018/coif). The series “The Human Experience” was commissioned by the editorial office without any funding or sponsorship. The author served as the unpaid Guest Editor of the series and serves as an unpaid editorial board member of Annals of Palliative Medicine from February 2022 to January 2024. The author has no other conflicts of interest to declare.
Ethical Statement: The author is accountable for all aspects of the work in ensuring that questions related to the accuracy or integrity of any part of the work are appropriately investigated and resolved.
Open Access Statement: This is an Open Access article distributed in accordance with the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 4.0 International License (CC BY-NC-ND 4.0), which permits the non-commercial replication and distribution of the article with the strict proviso that no changes or edits are made and the original work is properly cited (including links to both the formal publication through the relevant DOI and the license). See: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/.
