A favorite spot of Don and Helen’s along a trail from one of their many vacations to Yosemite
Credit: Unsplash

This is Helen’s story, as told to writer Aurora Wells. Our “Opening Our Hearts” stories are based on people’s real-life experiences with grief and loss. By sharing these experiences, we hope to help our readers feel less alone in their grief and ultimately aid them in their healing process. In this post, we tell the story of a woman who has lost her husband to bladder cancer.

The hospice workers told me death would carry him off in his sleep. Like a moonlit wave from God’s gentle sea, quietly collecting his soul at high tide. But it wasn’t like that.

My husband drowned.

He asked for a calendar. And when I saw Don trace the days with a quivering finger, brow furrowed in concentration, I knew he was holding the final page of his life.

Shortly thereafter, he stopped drinking water. The cloud of cancer and morphine thickened around him for days.

“He was drowning in my arms. And just like a baby fights to live, he fought to die.”

When I heard that gurgle, the so-called death rattle, I knew it meant his lungs were filling with water. He was drowning in my arms. And just like a baby fights to live, he fought to die.

Then the clouds parted. His eyes burned into mine with a clarity I thought lost. His final words were entirely lucid, though I rarely bring myself to repeat them. He said:

“Help me, Helen.”

After his death, exhaustion crippled me. I had to tell my grieving sons, I’m so sorry, but I have nothing left to give.

It would be six months before I felt rested. I was deeply haunted for much longer. It’s as if a part of me turned to stone forever — I just got stronger each day, until I could carry the weight without shaking. And even now, nine years later, I choke on his final words.

And even now, nine years later, I choke on his final words.

This might be difficult to understand, but I would rather my husband was still sick than gone forever.

Don and Helen on their honeymoon in Yosemite

Don was diagnosed with bladder cancer two and a half years before his death. I was his caregiver. And just as the cloud of disease and drugs consumed his mind toward the end of his life, the dark trauma obscures our 38 years of marriage in my memory. It’s challenging to truly recall our lives before.

And there was so much before.

We met in June, were engaged by August and married in November. There was the smell of sweet corn; the pumpkins and bright rooster feathers lining our San Francisco city garden. Don got his pilot’s license, and we saw California from above each wonderful weekend. Then we had boy after baby boy, until there were four towheads chasing the chickens.

I stayed home with the kids for 10 years before going back to work. Then I decided to fulfill a lifelong dream: At 51, I enrolled as an undergraduate at the University of California, Berkeley. It wasn’t easy, but Don supported me every step of the way. He was my best friend.

“I tried to lose myself in medical charts and fresh water; like a marionette with flailing arms, guided solely by the hapless strings of fierce dedication.”

I have my regrets. I wish I had talked to Don when he was sick. At the time, it felt selfish to make him talk when survival itself was a struggle … and criminally unfair to upset him with my tears. I tried to lose myself in medical charts and fresh water; like a marionette with flailing arms, guided solely by the hapless strings of fierce dedication.

Now I understand that yes, he was the one dying — but I was the one who would have to live with this.

I would do anything to have my husband back. But despite the pain we shared, I do not regret the way he died. After we learned of his cancer, we held each other so closely, looked into each other’s eyes more deeply than ever — and a kindness grew between us that was not there before. We knew we loved each other, but his sickness revealed the true strength of our love. And I will always be grateful for that.