Before The Deadly Diagnosis

Those of us who have lived with someone who was diagnosed with cancer will never forget the bravery of those for whom we were blessed to be caregivers.  I would never dare to claim to know what it was really like for Gwen to have been told she had a cancer that was incurable.  I think that only those who receive such a diagnosis can know what that feels like to the depths of their souls. I could see that it brought out the best in her.  She fought it with everything she had.  People give me a questioning look when I tell them that I never ever heard her complain or ask "why me?" It's true. She was too busy doing everything she could to live the best way she knew how to do. The cancer forced us to evaluate every day just how we were going to live fully with her diagnosis.  She never shrank from that task, and those of us who miss her every single day must do the same as we ever so slowly learn to live without her physical presence.

 We were always saddened when we heard stories about survivors who, when confronted with the cancer diagnosis, simply quit.  There are people like that.  They have a right to make that choice, of course. Similarly, just last night I heard a story about a young man who served for several years as the primary caregiver for his mother who was diagnosed with cancer.  Shortly after his mother was diagnosed, his father left, stating that it was "too painful for him to watch his wife die."  As his son said, "b. s."  At the risk of sounding arrogant, the pain I felt as I bore witness to Gwen's brave battle, came nowhere near what she taught me, her children, grandchildren and so many who knew and loved her, about living, and dying, with class and dignity.  She and I had a discussion about this on her birthday back in 2009.  This is what I wrote about it:

                                                                         BEFORE THE DEADLY DIAGNOSIS

We are grateful for,

and appreciative of

the quality of life we own,

the gift of each day,

the opportunity to live life

to its fullest.

Was life, just life,

ever so real, so near, so present,

indeed, so important,

before the deadly diagnosis?

Is that what it takes?

How sad.

John A. Bayerl,  October, 2009

Maybe that's what I miss most of all my dear; each day hearing you say, with actions more than words, c'mon, John, we can do this.  I have to remember how grateful you were for something as simple and basic as having your teeth brushed.  In the end, it's all so much more simple than we can possibly imagine.