It’s eight weeks today since Brian died. At times it feels like I’ve been living this nightmare for a lifetime, it’s so crippling. Other times if feels like it happened yesterday.
I’ve experienced the whole range of emotions. The overwhelming grief at losing my partner of thirty-nine years. The deep sadness. Depression. Anger. At God for allowing this to happen. At the surgeon who bungled the insertion of Brian’s portacath so he could start chemo and made his last three weeks an absolute misery. That anger festers inside me and until I find out exactly what happened in that operating theatre, I can’t release the anger.
We were told without chemo Brian would get six months. With chemo, the specialist said he would get nine good months before the cancer flared up again. Chemo was never going to be a cure, we knew that, but it would have given Brian more time and a better quality of life with less pain.
So instead of nine months, we got three weeks. It hardly seems fair. It wasn’t an easy death and I’m left with the horrendous memories of the fierce struggle Brian went through those last five hours. I doubt they’ll ever fade, but maybe the time will come when they are not sitting in the forefront of my brain and I can learn to live with them. One can only hope.