Be still my brain

The noise in my brain has arrested my ability to write. I feel like I am bursting at the seams to share the stories in my heart. But the words are blotted out by the white space surrounding them.

I want to yell from the mountain tops that my career is a gift. That all the wrong turns I took to get here, and the way I toiled in desperation and fear, in angst, and frenzied excitement was worth every second.

I want to tell you what it means to lose a partner to cancer. And what it means to look back on a relationship and see its naked truth, but how caring for someone with a terminal illness changes you fundamentally. For the better.

If you are going through the same thing, I wish I could fashion the words in some elegant way to tell you it’s going to be OK. Feeling sorry for your partner, for yourself, feeling rage, and being annoyed by people are a part of it. I want to tell you that the emotions you experience as a caregiver are natural, even if they are not very pretty. If I could write, I would tell you to express those things in whatever medium feels right; they are temporary and allow you to get back up the next day with renewed energy and kindness.

If I could put my pen to paper and my heart to the page, I would also tell you that when you are ready to move forward with your life that people will judge you. Not everyone. Those that do were going to judge you whether it was 6 weeks, 6 months, or 6 years before you moved forward. You don’t have to be stuck. Accepting the love of someone new doesn’t diminish the dearly departed. I would tell you to lean in.

If only I could get the words out, I promise I would not bury the lede: Feeling the love of someone special is an extraordinary gift because now, my dear, you know how fragile life really is.


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