I was looking through old photos today and was struck by how much my partner’s hair has greyed over the past year. It’s partly my fault, I think. COVID has been stressful for most, but on top of that she had the new role of caretaker to a cancer “survivor” thrown at her. It was the hardest after my debulking surgery in September. I had my ovaries and uterus along with two cantaloupe-sized tumors removed (I also learned that gynecological oncologists like to make fruit comparisons to describe tumors). For weeks she helped me get in and out of bed, take showers, and regularly propped me up on the couch so I could watch TV and eat gummy bears. Throughout my chemotherapy she continued to do most of the cooking and housework. Then in February she gently encouraged me to quit my job because we’d both seen how bleak the statistics are for my type of cancer. We agreed I deserve a retirement as much as anyone. But this meant more pressure would be on her to earn money and keep the health insurance.
Despite all this she’s been surprisingly cheerful and is often cracking jokes. Except for when I’m crying, then she’s crying too and gently holding me.
Her name is Hang. It’s pronounced “Hung”, like, “I hung out with Hang.” She’s my guardian of grief. If I were to write her a letter I would get right to the point and say that I love her a million times. I’d tell her that I will try my best to be one of the outliers who survives more than three years. I will take my new meds on time each day and eat lots of fruits and vegetables. But if I don’t make it, then I am very, very sorry to leave her.
I was looking through old photos today and was struck by how much my partner’s hair has greyed over the past year. It’s partly my fault, I think. COVID has been stressful for most, but on top of that she had the new role of caretaker to a cancer “survivor” thrown at her. It was the hardest after my debulking surgery in September. I had my ovaries and uterus along with two cantaloupe-sized tumors removed (I also learned that gynecological oncologists like to make fruit comparisons to describe tumors). For weeks she helped me get in and out of bed, take showers, and regularly propped me up on the couch so I could watch TV and eat gummy bears. Throughout my chemotherapy she continued to do most of the cooking and housework. Then in February she gently encouraged me to quit my job because we’d both seen how bleak the statistics are for my type of cancer. We agreed I deserve a retirement as much as anyone. But this meant more pressure would be on her to earn money and keep the health insurance.
Despite all this she’s been surprisingly cheerful and is often cracking jokes. Except for when I’m crying, then she’s crying too and gently holding me.
Her name is Hang. It’s pronounced “Hung”, like, “I hung out with Hang.” She’s my guardian of grief. If I were to write her a letter I would get right to the point and say that I love her a million times. I’d tell her that I will try my best to be one of the outliers who survives more than three years. I will take my new meds on time each day and eat lots of fruits and vegetables. But if I don’t make it, then I am very, very sorry to leave her.