This blog post is written by John's wife Brooke.
I never wanted to write in this blog.
Last summer, after having success with his cancer treatment, John started scouring the internet, looking for blogs written by people who had had similar experiences. He was staring down a long, dark tunnel of uncertainty and I think we both just really wanted to read that other people had been there, done that, and were living to tell the tale. John would often remark that he would be reading a blog, getting to know that person, rooting for them... and then...the last entry would be written by a bereaved husband or wife, boyfriend or girlfriend. The person left behind.
I am now that person and I am writing John's last entry. John died in the early hours of the day, after a long string of transplant-related complications. There was a series of problems that led to this, starting and ending with infection. For the immune-suppressed, the hospital is a minefield of disease, with dangerous bugs lurking in all corners. We just couldn't stay out of there long enough to keep him healthy.
It actually hurts to breathe, knowing hes not here. My stomach and my heart are painfully tight, my teeth hurt from clenching, my body shakes like a leaf. I had to tell two little boys with big eyes that their Dad was never coming home. To say this feels cruel, unfair and absolutely heart-wrenching would be an understatement. I read something in a book the other day, that said "we are all time-optimists". And I agree. I thought there would be more time to say and do all the things we wanted. He was only 38.
For the last 24 hours, my mind has been flipping like a Rolodex through every memory I have of him, the good times and the bad. It was like I was trying to remember every minute, every feature, before he was gone. My memories are tangled up in cancer and crisis, but when I close my eyes, what I want to remember is...
John bringing me a perfectly poured cappuccino every morning, while I dressed for work.
John spending 12 hours on our deck, lovingly smoking a piece of meat.
John calling me "Brookems" which I hated at first and then loved.
John patiently helping Alex with his homework and making him feel smart and proud.
John singing Luca bedtime songs, which resulted in us having a three year old who loved The Pogues.
Sharing a bottle of wine on the couch and being perfectly and blissfully in love.
John asking me, every day, if his tie went with his shirt.
John testing, re-testing, and re-re-testing the perfect pizza dough recipe.
The feeling of his chest hair. I know this is weird, but I loved to rest my head there and when the chemo took it all away, I was devastated.
Listening to John downstairs playing video games and drinking scotch with a friend, while I curled up with a book
John cooking pasta sauce in his God-awful camouflage shorts and barefeet.
Listening to John argue endlessly with the cable/internet companies. His extreme stubbornness always made me laugh, except when it was used on me.
All of these little things and a million more, made up our life. And now, without him beside me, I am the one facing down a long, dark tunnel of uncertainty.
I want to thank all of the people at the Ottawa General Hospital who looked after John for many, many months. The staff in the Bone Marrow Transplant Unit and the Intensive Care Unit have been nothing less than amazing. They treated all of us with kindness, dignity and great compassion.
I want to thank all of the family and friends who are supporting us through this nightmare. A dear friend referred to this the other day as "bench strength", and she is right. I have basically existed on the kindness of family and friends the last few months, and I am so appreciative.
I will end this post how I should have started it: by saying how much I love my husband and how special he's been to me in the last few months. I was there at the beginning of his fight and I was there at the end, and he never stopped being amazing to me. I want him back and it can never happen and so I will never be the same. Ever since I met John, all he ever wanted to do was take care of me. He wanted everything to be better, safer, tastier. I wish I could have made things better for him.
Thank you for reading Chemo Brain.
