Rick

by Mary
(La Jolla, California)

Obviously, our wedding day

Wow, where to begin? On April 1, 2005 I was at work when my husband, Rick, called. The sound of his voice told me everything. All I remember is standing by the window of my office and feeling nothing except a change into complete warrior mode.

The doctors had found a tumor on his right eye and we were to begin treatment the very next day. We went through a year of surgery on the eye, chemotherapy, scans, everything and after that year, we were told that the tumor had shrunk and that the cancer had not spread. We were joyous.

I decided, at that precise time, or my body did, to go through menopause and act like a three-year old and behave badly. I will NEVER forgive myself for the things I did that year, but we continued to make our plans for the future. We were young (50), we thought, and were so grateful that we decided to take early retirement and enjoy our lives.

Then came October 2007. The San Diego fires. By November of that year, Rick had a cough that wouldn't go away. He was so strong, such a fabulous athlete that we kinda ignored it. I know that sounds crazy, but it was just a cough. Finally, I dragged him to the doctor and they did some tests and then more tests and then we were called in.

Technically, what Rick had was melanoma in the eye and the doctor looked at us and said those horrible, horrible words. It's spread. To the liver, the lung and the bone.

All my dear husband said was, "Can I skate?" He's also a hockey coach as well as a teacher, so it was what he loved to do.

The answer was yes, but to be careful. Intense chemotherapy followed and he was put in the hospital for the most ghastly treatment imaginable. At one point, he was on the bathroom floor and looked up at me and made me swear to never make him go through this again.

We decided to stop treatment. It was incurable and we had two months together before hospice arrived. Those two months are a complete blur to me. All I remember is lying by his side, holding his hand, spending every moment I could with him.

On June 16, 2008, he died, at 5:04 a.m.

Today, July 12, 2008, I don't want to live without him. The pain is unbearable. The guilt, loss, paperwork, three funeral services, are more than any human being can bear. But I have to. I have to keep going on. I've talked with the grief counselor and my doctor and, blah, blah, blah, it's all the same language.

There is no word in the dictionary to describe this until you've lived it. I've checked.

My heart goes out to each and every person here. How I wish we were not. He was the love of my life and I don't know where to go from here. All I DO know is that if the situation were reversed, it would've been harder for him. So, on some level, that's a blessing, I guess.

I've written my Letter to God expressing my anger. We're not friends right now. I hope I find Him again. But to take a wonderful, giving, caring man like that who had so much promise is unforgivable.