How am I supposed to carry on like normal when half of my soul has been taken from me? Losing my wife of 53 years changed who I am, and nothing will ever be the same again. I have never experienced such bitterness, heartache, and loneliness before. I struggle to find purpose and hope in the future. I’ve always been a happy guy, but now I’m facing the biggest battle of my life to be that person again. Although sometimes tempted, I can’t give up. I’ll have to find my way without Jean.
But will I have the strength to claw my way through the hazy fog of grief until I find sunshine again? Bright White Feather is my story of healing and hope.
How am I supposed to carry on like normal when half of my soul has been taken from me? Losing my wife of 53 years changed who I am, and nothing will ever be the same again. I have never experienced such bitterness, heartache, and loneliness before. I struggle to find purpose and hope in the future. I’ve always been a happy guy, but now I’m facing the biggest battle of my life to be that person again. Although sometimes tempted, I can’t give up. I’ll have to find my way without Jean.
But will I have the strength to claw my way through the hazy fog of grief until I find sunshine again? Bright White Feather is my story of healing and hope.
Chapter 1
Pastel-Colored Walls
The imaging clinic called a few days after Jean’s routine mammogram. They needed further testing. We didn’t think much about it, because this had happened a lot over the years. Jean had dense breast tissue and they often wanted to follow up with an ultrasound to be on the safe side. We’d had a few scares before, but things always turned out fine.
This time was different. They had found a lump in her right breast that the ultrasound confirmed. Next step: a biopsy.
We tried to hide it from each other but the truth was we were both nervous. Jean was good about getting her mammogram every year but this time she had missed a year. Somehow it had slipped through the cracks after she was assigned a different primary physician.
On the day of the biopsy, she was noticeably more quiet than usual. I knew she was worried when she reminded me that she had missed her test the year before.
“I can’t believe I did that. How could I have forgotten something so important?”
“Doesn’t your doctor schedule for a mammogram during your physical every year?”
“Yes, but they assigned a new doctor to me last year and it must have gotten missed.”
Driving to the clinic, we listened to music on the radio while I made small talk trying to take her mind off the test and calm her nerves. “Let’s go to lunch after the test.” She nodded and looked straight ahead but didn’t say a word. It wasn’t working.
She was obviously in deep thought, and I sensed that she had a premonition something was wrong.
When we arrived for the appointment, I asked the nurse if I could stay with Jean during the test for support, and she said yes. Sitting in a chair about six feet behind Jean, I could see the doctor and the ultrasound screen he would use to guide the biopsy needle. The doctor pointed out the mass on the screen and explained how the procedure would proceed step by step. Then it was time to numb the area where the long scary looking biopsy needle would penetrate her breast. I cringed watching this bizarre scenario playing out before my eyes. The doctor had a calm, reassuring demeanor, and constantly checked with Jean making sure she was comfortable.
I knew how much she dreaded this biopsy and I couldn’t have been any prouder of the strength, bravery, and grace she displayed throughout the entire ordeal. She never even flinched.
As I watched the needle penetrate the spongy-looking mass on the screen I thought, this is going to come back negative. It just has to. My whole life is sitting in front of me in that chair.
The procedure took about half an hour to complete, and when it was over, I went back to the waiting room while Jean dressed. She smiled at me as she entered the waiting room through a hallway door, but it was an uneasy smile. She was using it as makeup to cover up the stress on her face, but this wasn’t a blemish that could be hidden. I knew her too well to be fooled.
Waiting for the biopsy results became agonizing. I don’t remember how many days it took. We were about to find out how slowly the wheels can turn through this process.
It tested our patience and our anxiety grew with every moment that passed. It was like waiting for a stoplight to change when you’re late for an appointment. You don’t give it much thought until it affects you and you feel your hands tightening around the steering wheel as the minutes tick by.
In the past, they had always sent a letter stating the test were negative. This time they asked us to come in to discuss the results. Our hopes that the tests would come back negative were beginning to fade, and our daughter Lori met us at the clinic to hear the outcome.
Our hearts sank when the nurse showed us to an almost too comfortable room with a small couch and a couple of upholstered chairs. The first thing I noticed was the box of tissues on a small coffee table separating the furniture ¾ not a good omen. The walls were painted a soothing pastel color with perfectly framed pictures of calming scenes hanging on them. A pretty bouquet of flowers sat on the table. All were designed to feel less sterile and clinical, none of which helped to settle our nerves.
Finally, the radiologist entered the room. Wearing his lab coat he offered a weak attempt at a reassuring smile. He looked to be in his early forties and was a tall, slender man. He didn’t appear to be nervous, but I could tell by his body language that he was uncomfortable having to deliver life-changing news. He had most likely entered that room dozens of times before, but I couldn’t imagine it ever getting any easier. He carried a piece of paper that I assumed was the biopsy results.
After the word malignant passed over his lips, everything else was a blur. Jean began to cry softly. Lori, as a nurse, put her arm around her mom to comfort her while I sat numb. I can’t explain why, but I’ve always had trouble expressing my emotions in times of crisis. Now I’m haunted by the guilt that I didn’t take her in my arms and hold her for as long as she needed. I failed to provide what she may have wanted most at that moment.
Jean composed herself and dabbed her tears with tissue from the table as we asked the doctor a few questions. I can’t remember any of them because, although I was there physically, my mind had left the station. She never brought that day up again and I’m not sure she even realized who was doing what at the time.
Minutes later, we were taken to a much smaller room and introduced to a nurse who would be our guide for the dreaded journey ahead. There were only two chairs in this little room with a pass-through opening and the nurse on the other side. Lori stood next to Jean as we listened closely trying to understand the instructions being given to us. She made the appointment for an oncologist in two weeks and gave us material describing what to expect over the coming weeks and months. It was hard to concentrate on the words she was saying when our heads were still spinning from the devastating news we were given moments earlier. I couldn’t stop wondering why it would be two weeks before Jean could see an oncologist. Hadn’t they just told us that the tumor was malignant? How much more could cancer grow in two weeks? This was our initiation into a club no one wants to be a member of.
* * *
At our first appointment with the oncologist, we were introduced to a nurse in charge of a special study program. It involved patients from all over the country with estrogen-dependent breast cancer. She explained how this research, if proven effective, could help these women possibly avoid much more invasive treatments. I could see Jean’s spirits being lifted by the thought that she might be able to avoid the dreaded chemotherapy routine.
She was willing to be a test subject which didn’t surprise me. It made me even prouder of the person she was. The drug they were using was supposed to slow the growth of cancer by blocking the estrogen from feeding the tumor. She was given a shot once a week for a month. A biopsy of the tumor was taken at the beginning and the end of the month to see if the drug was working. When the month of treatment ended, we were facing another two weeks of waiting for the results. The biopsy came back with higher numbers of cell growth, not lower as we were hoping for.
We were disappointed, but now it was time to move to plan B to start chemotherapy. It was a twelve-week regimen with a once-a-week dose. We were going to become very familiar with the inside of an infusion room. It was a large, open room with eleven recliner chairs lining three outside walls. On one side of the chair was an IV stand where they hung the various concoctions that made up the chemo cocktails. A small TV screen hung from a swivel arm attached to the wall behind each chair. It was supposed to keep patients entertained during their two-and-a-half-hour ordeal. Each space had a curtain for privacy, but most patients left themselves exposed to the room.
On the back wall, snacks and drinks were provided at no charge. The center of the room was filled with workstations where nurses recorded detailed information about the treatment each of their patients was receiving.
I found it strange how something so foreign could become routine. Patients sat in a chair for hours at a time, week after week, as the poison was pumped into their bodies. Some watched movies while others visited with loved ones or performed business deals on their phones as if it were a normal day.
I remember feeling empathy for the patients I saw by themselves. I wondered if they were alone in this world, or living too far away from relatives who couldn’t be with them. Either way, it made me sad.
I felt so fortunate to be retired and stay by Jean’s side for every infusion. It had to be hard on cancer patients to sit in those oncology waiting rooms seeing someone seated across from them, appearing to be in the final stages of their battle. How could they keep from wondering if they would have that same look months or years from that day?
One of the serious side effects of chemo is neuropathy, a numbing, burning, tingling, and painful condition in the hands and feet. Jean started getting it at week ten of the twelve-week regimen.
Her doctor stopped treatment at that point. He thought the tumor had shrunk
and talked about the possibility of a lumpectomy. A PET scan would show if that was an option, and Jean was excited by the thought of getting some positive news. Her neuropathy was driving her crazy by this point. It added an extra medication to the growing list of pharmaceutical compounds being absorbed into her tiny body.
This was Jean’s second PET scan and it took a while to get it scheduled. Unfortunately, there are too few scanning machines for the number of people with cancer. We waited with fingers crossed hoping the scan would show the tumor had shrunk enough to be removed with a simple lumpectomy. Meanwhile, we had an appointment with the surgeon to discuss the results when they came back.
* * *
Another exam room, another doctor, another disappointment. The surgeon appeared to be very young. But then, everyone looked young to me those days. She was straightforward and confident but not too arrogant. We liked her right away. What she had to say we didn’t like so much.
She explained that the PET scan showed the mass was larger than the oncologist could have determined in his office and had spread to the lymph nodes under her right armpit and along the side of her breast bone. She recommended a mastectomy. That was scary enough, but she went on to explain that it’s much too dangerous to surgically remove lymph nodes under the breast bone. We would have to count on radiation treatment to neutralize them.
Disfigurement was one of Jean’s biggest fears, but it seemed the only option if she wanted to continue the fight. I always knew she was tough, but when she agreed to have the surgery I was finding out how incredibly brave she was as well.
On the day of the surgery, we arrived at the hospital around 7 a.m. I was allowed to be with Jean until they wheeled her into the operating room. She was surprisingly calm and we shared small talk while we waited. She laughed when I wanted to kiss her breast goodbye for the last time.
I watched the surgical nurse wheel the hospital bed through the large automatic doors as helplessness overwhelmed me once again. They disappeared down a hallway as the big double doors closed behind them with a metallic thud. It felt like a metaphor, a chapter of our lives coming to an end.
Jean was released around 3:30 that afternoon after spending several hours in the recovery room. The surgery went well, as far as the procedure was concerned, and Jean had
very little pain. I played nurse, changing her dressings and emptying the drain each day as she sat on the edge of the tub. A couple of weeks later the surgeon removed the drain. She was pleased with how well Jean was healing and released her back to the care of her doctor.
Our next appointment with the oncologist brought more bad news. The roller coaster ride was getting crazier every day. He explained that the tissue samples from the surgery showed microscopic cancer cells in the margins of the sample area. He recommended another round of chemotherapy. This was a more powerful drug, given every three weeks for a twelve-week regimen.
We were stunned, and the disappointment on Jean’s face was clear. At that moment she looked ready to give up.
“Shall we get you scheduled?” he asked.
“I don’t know, I need to think about it,” she replied.
“The schedule fills up fast, so please don’t take too long.”
I realized I couldn’t push her on this. As much as I wanted to tell her that she had
to keep fighting for everyone who loved her, I knew it had to be her decision. She was
the one suffering through the ups and downs of this nightmare. She would be the one to say how it ends.
Later that evening we talked about the pros and cons of continuing treatment.
“I love you, baby. I know this is deeply personal for you, but what if this drug
can save your life?”
“Every time I think a treatment could be what I need to kick cancer’s ass, I get knocked down again.”
“I know, Angel. If I could switch places with you, I would in a heartbeat.”
“I know you would, sweetie . . . okay, I’ll do it . . . let’s hug it out.”
I slid up next to her and we shared a long, firm hug, our bodies pressed so tightly against each other that we were transferring energy from soul to soul. We had performed this ritual many times before when one of us needed a boost. I don’t know if what happened can be explained in scientific terms, or if anyone else experiences what we felt. I only know we felt it, and it was real.
There was no way I could let the thought of losing her enter my head. I looked at that pretty face sitting next to me on the couch. Age, combined with the stress of her cancer treatment, was beginning to show small changes. But she looked as beautiful as ever to me. In my mind, I recalled the first time I ever saw that face.
What do butterflies, male cardinals of the brightest reds, and white feathers have in common? They are all tangible reminders of loved ones that have passed away, supposedly showing themselves to be still alive, just beyond the veil, healthy and whole, letting their loved ones know they are with them always and doing just fine. Although a beautiful, sentimental thought, I believe it's not so much the loved one who has passed showing up through animals or objects but gifts from God via a form the loved one who has yet to cross over will accept and receive His love and comfort from.
Regardless of your take on the above, the white feathers mentioned in this book do come alongside this author at just the right moments in time. It truly was as if his wife was still with him, standing near him, letting him know she was present and he wasn't alone while journeying towards a future without her consistency beside him.
Some people, after their spouse passes, still feel married. While still feeling married, they cannot fathom nor want to pursue a life with someone other than the person they were married to. Others feel very much alone after a spouse's passing and cannot fathom a life without a loved one by their side to cherish, honor, protect, and do life with for better or worse, for richer for poorer, until death do they part. And that's the significant key, isn't it? Until death parts them.
What this book does well shows the struggle of and through grief. Even when you know your spouse's death is near, there is no way to be prepared for it truly. The stages of grief are meant to be gone through fully and completely for their healing. There is no hard or fast formula to accepting and absorbing grief. Loss changes you, and you are being made new as you begin again, whether willingly or unwillingly.
While this book is a wonderful gift to this author's family, and the pictures provided are heartwarming and beautiful to bear witness to, I did find it to be a bit dry and underwhelming within its ability to engage me as a reader. As it wasn't for me, I almost gave this book a three-star rating but decided to bless it with a four-star because the editing was spot on, and it was without blemishes. Thought, hard work, and a laying bare were involved in bringing it to life and those things should be rewarded.
I hope the author continues to adventure, heal, and discover who he is now. There is life after death, both for the spouse who has passed on and the one who is meant to carry on here on earth until their time to cross over, too, has come. Whether that be through dating and discovering an additional love that blesses his days while here or through healing that simply embraces all that was and that in itself becomes enough for him to carry on living fully in a love remembered and somehow still felt. What is meant to happen is the carrying on within the reverberations of love. May that be his story to tell, amen!