I am a thirty-five year old widow. The man I married, who was weaved into every dream I had for my future, died in a hospice bed on February 3, at 9:37 p.m. after a brutal battle with glioblastoma.
I am a single mother to two grieving children learning how to live without their father.
I am a writer but I can’t find the words to explain what this feels like.
I am a private person, who has lost her privacy. It seems as if everywhere I go strangers know that my husband died of brain cancer. I don’t know how they found out, but I find myself wanting to tell them it’s not true. He didn’t die of brain cancer. It wasn’t that simple. He fought, gracefully and bravely against a vicious disease for twenty months. He lost his humor, his strength, and everything that made him, in painfully small bits and pieces. He died because a cancer that spreads in less than 1% of cases found a way to spread into his spinal fluid and his spinal cord.
I am a person defined by what I’ve lost.
I cannot bring back my husband or my children’s father or the words I need, but I can control this story.