Half of me has gone away.

And the void has been filled with a physical, aching pain.

Shortly after the New Year, my son and I took my wife back to the emergency room, and this time the CT scan caught traces of brain cancer.  At that point the doctors were still hopeful a couple of radiation treatments would eradicate it.  She went to the oncology center to have a mask made which would protect the rest of her head during the treatments.  The pain pills didn’t seem to work.  Out of respect for her, I will not recount her descent, but it was terrible.  Eventually we called an ambulance to take her back to the hospital.  More tests showed that in that short period of time the cancer had grown rapidly.  There was no other recourse than transferring her to Hospice.

She died three days later.  From the last happy day of wrapping Christmas presents to her last breath was only three weeks from a cancer which was not even considered a threat.  My daughter and her family fortunately were able to arrive to make their good-byes.

The memorial service went well.  People from our church, her former work associates, our son’s fellow workers and personal friends attended.  All were shocked at the quickness of it.  We all sang our favorite song, “Never Ending Love For You.”

I had not realized this before, but mourning is an actually physical pain.  Perhaps no one else in my life who had died meant as much to me as my wife of forty-four years.  I have no appetite.  I ache all over.  From time to time I feel a burning sensation all over my body.  Some days I am able to file some bills or clean up a little bit; other days I awake, sit before a television screen and stare.  I force myself to make promises to attend events when friends call.  I hope I can keep those promises.

My children made me go to each of my doctors to assure us I’m hanging in there.  I go see a counselor picked out by my son next week.

This is the first thing I’ve written in a month.  I have to find a new copy editor.  My last one has gone away.