Bob’s story begins on January 31, 2021. On this day, my daughter and I decided to take my husband, Bob, to our local hospital. He had been displaying symptoms of severe depression and, since his mom was critically ill (and those two were SO close), I felt it was time to seek help. Now, I anticipated that help to come in the form of medication, possible therapy, and maybe even a short hospital stay.
Keep in mind that COVID was still very real. When we got to the hospital, my daughter wasn’t allowed to come in. They really didn’t want me to come in, but after explaining what was going on, I was permitted to stay with Bob after seeing an MRI was ordered… “ just to be sure.”
Imagine my horror when two hours later, I heard those awful words, “I’m sorry to tell you that your husband has a brain tumor.” The only real symptoms he had been having was an occasional screw-up at the store (I would send him for bread, and he would come home with milk), and once in a while, I would catch him staring into space. I would ask him what he was thinking about, and he would instantly answer, “Mom and Dad.”
My husband was a true blue hypochondriac. When the doctor said those damn words, he just smiled. It was then I truly knew my life was changed forever. Nobody said glioblastoma — just tumor.
Ultimately, he was admitted, and I went home to sleep a few hours (yeah right), and the next morning they called me and said, “Your husband has COVID, and you are not permitted to visit.” The next phone call was from a neurosurgeon who said he must operate immediately. I asked how long my husband had to live without the surgery, and he said maybe a week or two. I asked how long with the surgery, and he said maybe a year or two. It’s all a blur those next 11 days.
My husband underwent two brain surgeries over the next two days. He was on a ventilator for five days in the ICU, and I could not visit, hold his hand, or hug him. Finally, he was able to breathe on his own and was transferred to a rehab center. He was there for two weeks, and I brought him home. He could not walk on his own. He was barely talking, needed help to eat, and was incontinent.
For the next 13 months, I watched him slowly fade away. He was not the man I married, but oh, how I loved him. I knew he loved me even though he really wouldn’t say it. Then on April 9, 2022, he had the “big” seizure. By then, I had hospice involved. Though they came out to my house right away, we really couldn’t get the seizure to stop. I transferred him to in-patient hospice the next day, and he took his last breath on April 12, 2022.
There is so much more to my story, but it’s still hard to put into words. I’m sad, I’m angry, I’m depressed. I miss him with every fiber of my life. Our daughter is having her first child soon, and he won’t be there. My son (who lives with me) stayed at a job he hated while his dad was going through his ordeal just so he could be there to help me at night. The two granddaughters that we already had are so lost without their ”pappy.” It’s a horrible cancer that took my husband from me. It really was “The Longest Goodbye.”
