I have had two “worst days in my life.”
The first was in June of 2020 when Nancy was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The second worst was when we left the cancer clinic without a return appointment.
Nancy passed away from pancreatic cancer on May 9, 2024. Despite her departure, Nancy’s presence is everywhere in our empty house: her scent, in the furniture, the color of the rooms, her clothes, and yard plantings. We had been married for 46 years, and notwithstanding my children, friends, and colleagues, the following year was challenging. I have suffered from the bereavement syndrome that I call ALDI’s disease
I was angry at her loss and her absence from mine, the children’s, and grandchildren’s lives. Though I had heard repeatedly that “things happen for a reason”, a reason for Nancy’s premature demise there was none. Cancer is often a random occurrence, and Nancy’s affliction, as it is in others with cancer, was truly an unlucky twist of fate, for which there is no rhyme or reason. This often made me curt, short-tempered, and at times unreasonable.
Having parted with my partner, I was lonely. Sure, Nancy and I have three children, two of which live in town, but there is no substitute for one’s spouse and constant companion. The presence, conversation and feel of the departed is forever gone, never to return. Time has helped alleviate the vacuum, but only partially. Spring, and the blooming of the plants she planted, is proof of her presence.
Selfishly, I was in disbelief that cancer could afflict Nancy. Over the years, I had seen terminal cancer in many patients, but never envisioned it would afflict my family. Nancy had not smoked and had been the exemplary spouse, mother, and caregiver. How could this be happening to her? As is the case with the similarly afflicted, she did not deserve this. Cancer and other illnesses are not always on our radar. After all, worrying about what can happen can consume us, without always being able to change our fate.
With the loss of my constant companion, counselor, and my caregiver when ill, I sensed insecurity. When I had fallen ill with kidney stones, vestibular neuronitis, and atrial fibrillation, Nancy was there for me. Now with her departure, there is a definite awareness of the fragility of life and the associated uncertainty. Though I have my children and friends, my rock is no longer by my side.
I owe my ongoing recovery to my children, high school and college friends and colleagues. As others who have experienced a similar loss, we are turning the corner, though slowly. Knowing that I still have a purpose and a contribution to make has been a lifeline. Life without Nancy will never be the same. She wished for all of us a full and meaningful life after her passing. She was a firm believer in the resurrection, accepting her illness resolutely without a tear or complaint. She promised Courtney she would do her best to watch over us. It was her devoutness that made her accept her illness stoically and gracefully. She repeatedly expressed that her only comfort was that it was her that was sick and none of us!
I grew up in Beirut, Lebanon, and Nancy grew up in Davenport. For two people born and raised thousands of miles apart, to meet was truly a coincidence conjured only in heaven.
Patrick Hitchon lives in Iowa City. He is a professor of neurosurgery at the University of Iowa.
This article originally appeared on Iowa City Press-Citizen: One year after the loss of a spouse | Column
Reporting by Patrick Hitchon / Iowa City Press-Citizen
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