Eleven years ago, the world as I knew it ended. My husband of 19 years was diagnosed with terminal cancer Over the course of seven months, Bill went from beating me silly at tennis to needing my help to go to the bathroom. It was the best seven months of my life.
Maybe I don't actually mean that But it was certainly the time when I felt most alive. I discovered that the minor complaint of an annoying co-worker, or a flat tire pales in comparison with the beauty of sincere laughter, or the smells of a bakery. There were moments of joy; laughter, and tenderness. After Bill's diagnosis and brain surgery, I found clinical trials and talked to doctors in Texas, Pennsylvania, and New York. It gave me a sense of purpose.
In the latter days, being Bill's caregiver also meant being fully present for as many moments of every day as possible. During his last weekend, we had dinner together. Later, a relative visited. I noticed that she'd changed her appearance, and not in a good way. It was the kind of thought I'd usually keep to myself Just then, Bill voiced exactly what I'd been thinking, in that truthful way he had, and I found myself laughing out loud.
I thought I could look after this man forever. However, he would be dead in four days.
Eleven years later, I haven't started a foundation to cure cancer. I haven't left the news business to get a medical degree. But every day, I try to again be the person I became during those seven months. I try to be a little less judgmental, a little more forgiving and generous. I am a better person for having been Bill's caregiver. It was his last, best gift to me.
