There is no great enough distraction

I’m trying my hardest to find some kind of positive thing to distract me and keep my mind focused on hope and good things. But I’m finding it really difficult to do right now.

I don’t know if it’s because it’s been cloudy all week, which always puts me in more of a down mood. (You can see, therefore, why living in eastern Michigan was so difficult for me, since it’s cloudy there more often than not.)

I’ve tried meditating and it hasn’t really helped at all. I think that these are just uncomfortable feelings I’m going to have to sit with and frankly, I don’t have any kind of guide map to get out of this.

I’m really wrestling with the fact that my husband is going to die. I don’t know when that will be, but knowing that it’s a certainty within the next few years is more than I can wrap my head around.

Of course, I have all kinds of fears, and most of them are rational things to fear. This is far beyond my usual anxiety, which makes me worry about things which may or may not ever happen. The things I worry about now are things that very much could happen.

I try to comfort myself by talking to my kids about normal stuff. The other night, my youngest wanted to talk to me but he saw that I was talking to my middle daughter instead. Knowing that I’m seen as a valuable emotional resource to my kids makes me feel really special and honored, especially that they almost compete over who gets time with me.

But the fact remains that I am also talking less to my husband, for several reasons. Part of it is that we’re both so tired all the time, which leaves less to discuss. And another big part of it is that it seems like there isn’t much to say because what we’re going through is too scary to verbalize.

I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever get to have another normal date night with him. I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to go to another concert together. I don’t know if we’ll ever have a normal sex life again.

It’s hard sometimes not to think of our relationship in the past tense already, even though he’s still here. I have no idea what the future holds but it may not hold many of the same things as before. Of course, this is also a chemo weekend, when everything looks more bleak anyway.

It feels like the acute illness stage snuck up on me in a way that feels different than before. And I don’t know how much of that is due to the fact that we’re both spooked by the recurrence and lost a lot of our optimism, and how much of it is a genuine premonition that he’s not going to return to “normal” as he was even three months ago. I am essentially powerless except to wait and find out what’s next.

I have control freak tendencies as it is and this is really the ultimate test in learning how to live with things I can’t control. But this stage where it seems like he’s worse than before really feels like it’s the beginning of the end. He says the beginning of the end was when he first got diagnosed and I suppose that’s accurate, but this just feels different to me because optimism got me through it before and I don’t have much of that now.

I’m incredibly mindful of the fact that things are much harder for him than for me and try to keep my focus on alleviating his suffering as much as I can. But at the same time, I also have all these worries—the greatest of which is how I will get through the rest of my life alone. I really don’t want to be completely alone and for the most part, I haven’t been since I was 20.

I’m not ready for all this but I don’t really get that choice. I just wish someone would hug me and let me cry.

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