We’d had a good life together, Mary and me. From cutting wedding cake, to getting up in the middle of the night to attend to sick kids, to seeing four of them through high school we’d been a functional family. We had agreed or agreed to disagree on things that mattered. Our love for each other had grown and matured. At this time in our lives we were ready to begin to enjoy the fruits of our labors. It was late winter 1973. She was only 46 and I just 52. Shouldn’t we have a lot of years to enjoy the fruits of our labors together?

But it was not to be. It was a dreary winter day when I came home from the hospital where the doctor had found that her cancer had spread and riddled her liver with tumors. The chemotherapy had done no good. That dreary day was the darkest day of my life. In my heart Mary died that day. Alone in bed that night I shed bitter tears and many sobs before I finally slept. Morning brought no relief. It was the beginning of my grief cycle. I was angry, sad, seeking whom or what to blame for her illness, sorry for myself and all the other negative things that goes with grief. I continued in my grief for the few months left of her mortal life. By that time my grief had pretty much run its course and I felt a sense of relief that Mary’s discomfort and suffering were at an end.

When we first learned of Mary’s illness of course I was concerned and realized that a long struggle lay ahead for her. In her first stint in the hospital the doctors found cancer in her colon. They removed a section of the colon and scheduled chemotherapy for her. She recovered from the surgery in good spirits. She had many friends who came to her with support and encouragement. In the spirit of the Christmas season some of them had a party for her in the hospital. They even brought her a three-foot tree, complete with decorations.

Mary was discharged from the hospital shortly before Christmas and so spent her last one at home with her family. The kids got a family sized pine tree for the occasion and we celebrated Yuletide almost as usual, but with an air of foreboding.

In the days that followed I was optimistic about her recovery. I believed that she would get well. Frequently a group of friends came to the house to visit Mary. They often prayed over her with laying on of hands and anointing her with oil. She functioned much as normal, though a little slower. I continued to have what I thought was faith, but as I saw her health decline day by day I realized that it was only hope, not faith. Then on that dreary late winter day even my hope was dashed on the rocks of reality.

Friends continued to visit, to sometimes bring food, to talk, to pray, and bolster her spirit even as her body shrank to skin and bones. She began to accumulate fluid in the belly so that she looked pregnant and meant a trip to the doctor to drain the fluid. The fluid contained protein that was supposed to nourish her body. The resulting reduction in weight was a relief, making it easier for her to move around.

Memory does not serve me well concerning this period of my life. Perhaps it’s a normal thing for the mind to shut out the most painful experiences.