A New Lesson in Grief
In the face of a dire diagnosis, the author finds an unexpected source of comfort
Each time, the refrain is different. With my husband Joe (leukemia), what went round and round in my head was, "If he goes, I'm going to have to reimagine my whole life." With my sister (colon cancer), it was, "My sister, my only sister." With my stepson (pancreatic cancer), it was, "Nobody should have to suffer like this."
Two days later, his urologist confirmed what we suspected: Bob's situation was now "incurable."
When my second husband Bob recently received a dire diagnosis (stage 4 prostate cancer), a new refrain ignited: "I can't believe I'm going through this again." This wasn't a response tinged with self-pity. It contained no element of, Why me, or, It's so unfair. Rather, it was a clear-eyed, painful recognition of what was coming at him … at us … ultimately, at just me.
By the time the anxious refrain quieted five days later, my appreciation for the uniqueness of each grief experience had broadened.
Two weeks earlier, we'd been told by Bob's urologist, a doctor he trusts, that the cancer looked contained and was a "curable situation." Just to be sure, he ordered up an MRI, then a biopsy, then a Pet scan. Against my counsel, Bob jumped on the patient portal and accessed the results. The scan indicated metastases to three areas.
Meeting With the Oncologist
Two days later, his urologist confirmed what we suspected: Bob's situation was now "incurable." If Bob was eligible for a particular protocol, the doctor told us, he had a 50% chance of surviving five years. Certainly, he said, Bob had two. He then directed us to a urologic oncologist, who would conduct genetic tests to assess Bob's eligibility for the protocol.
The oncologist's office gave Bob an appointment five days out, then phoned back and said an earlier slot had opened, just two days away. "Be sure to bring your wife," he was told. We felt relief that we would talk to this doctor sooner rather than later. We felt scared that he seemed to want to see us so quickly.
During these days, Bob and I packed in a lot of thinking, planning and anticipatory grief. We'd met on a dating site back in 2010 after each of us had lost our spouse to cancer (his to lung, mine to blood). From our very first phone call, we've talked about grief. What each of us was experiencing. How we were coping. What we would want if we were the one to receive such a diagnosis.
In the 15 years since, death and dying have been a constant part of our conversation. Bob was with me through the prolonged deaths of my sister and mother in 2010, and the sudden deaths of my father in 2018 and older brother in 2023. We were together through his son Adam's battle with pancreatic cancer that mercifully ended in 2023 after pain the likes of which neither of us had ever witnessed.
Should the time come, we would honor each other's wishes for palliative care.
Adam was young, just 41, and willing to endure anything to survive. We, of course, honored his wishes. But between ourselves, we agreed that neither of us wanted to die like that. Should the time come, we would honor each other's wishes for palliative care.
As we awaited the oncology appointment, we focused on what steps needed to be taken. That we both knew from hard-won experience didn't make it any easier. Most painful was Bob having to tell his 46-year-old daughter, me my 30-year-old daughter.
After reaching out to our closest friends, Bob dealt with the numbing realization that he was going to die by trying to focus on what he could do to make the task of settling his estate easier for me and his daughter. I dealt with the numbing realization that I was going to be alone again by trying to focus on where I could move that might help ease the ache I knew only too well. When a widowed friend texted that she loved the 55+ community she'd recently moved to, I asked her to send information.
Grief Is Unique
During these long, stress-filled hours, I was reminded anew how unique each encounter with grief is. Joe and I had lived through every moment of his leukemia together, the sole focus on getting him through each step of the chemo bombardments, then a stem cell transplant. His constant pain and multiple complications left little space to consider what I was going through, but I was okay with that. We had reason to hope Joe had many more years.
I dealt with the numbing realization that I was going to be alone again by trying to focus on where I could move that might help ease the ache I knew only too well.
Bob and I had none. We understood that the choices ahead would revolve around securing him a measure of physical comfort, not a cure. Even so, Bob's reaction was different than any of the experiences I've had with loved ones facing the prospect of death. Because Bob had been left behind by his first wife, then by his son, he understood that I was losing a life, too — my life with him. Immediately, he opened up our conversation to allow space for my fears and the challenges I would face. Small though it was, I felt a measure of comfort that we would truly be facing death together.
Then, the appointment date arrived. "I have nothing but good news today," the oncologist said as he entered the room. Bob's eyes and mine snapped toward each other in bewilderment as the doctor continued, "I'll give you the Cliff Notes version: this is curable."
Surprised by Good News
We learned that though Bob has stage 4 prostate cancer, his specific variety is "stage 4 hormone-sensitive prostate cancer with low volume metastatic disease." The metastases, in other words, are small in number. As a result, the oncologist said, a combination of hormone therapy, radiation and a two-year drug regimen could eliminate the cancer and metastases. "I've seen many cases like yours," he concluded. "The outcomes have been good."
The refrain of "I can't believe I'm going through this again" has stopped.
Bob went off to have blood drawn for genetic testing. I called my stepdaughter to say, "Don't tell your father I told you, but I don't want you to suffer even a second longer," then downloaded the new prognosis.
Days later, Bob maintains understandable skepticism. You'd think I would, too, given that I've been through miraculous reprieves before. Post-surgery and post-chemo, my sister was told she was a "miracle patient," showing no signs of metastatic activity. She died 18 months later. Adam was told his cancer was curable. He died five months later.
Something in me is refusing to go there. The refrain of "I can't believe I'm going through this again" has stopped. In its stead, I'm feeling deep love for Bob, keen thankfulness for his companionship, renewed appreciation for the life we've built together.
Though the months ahead may prove difficult, I am holding onto the prognosis that this is "curable." If I've learned anything from my cascade of losses, it's to lean into gratitude for what I have right here, right now.
