A Spouse’s Journey: The Trip Back
By Mary Barranco

This morning, the day my husband goes in for the first three-month check-up since being declared cancer free, I have been awake for hours, but seem to be getting dressed very slowly. I stand in front of the mirror and stare hard at my naked body looking for the scars of the past 16 months. There are none. I am surprised. How is that possible? In the months since his diagnosis of stage 3 rectal cancer, parts of me felt broken. As I struggled right beside my husband, prepared to do anything to help him recover, my heart broke and there was an ache so deep inside that I am certain something in there broke, too. At the very least, I think my mind was broken for a while, because there were weeks that I cared for my husband, my children, and my job, and I have no recollection of those days. Yet, today as I stand here, there is not one visible scar from that painful journey.

I hurry to get dressed. We cannot be late for the surgeon or oncologist. My husband has orchestrated precisely timed appointments with no time to spare. He has efficiently taken care of those details just like he used to—before. Yet, there were so many times in the past several months, during the weeks of chemotherapy, radiation, three surgeries, and ultimately, the irreversible colostomy, that he could not make a single decision. The responsibility of his treatment, care, finances, and the care of our family fell squarely on my shoulders. I accepted the role willingly. I knew about caretaking and was good at doing the research to make well-informed medical choices. I was used to it. I did it for years for my mother before her recent passing. I could do this. I was courageous and strong. At least that was what people kept telling me. I never told them I felt broken.

I take extra care as I blow dry my hair today. I want to look good. Of all the things to think about, I am thinking about my hair. My husband’s fate is a few hours away and I am taking more time to think of my hair than I do on most other days. This is ridiculous. I am reminded of all the articles I have read on caregiving. Take extra good care of your health. Sleep. Eat nutritiously. Ask for help. I never knew what to ask for. After all, I was broken. Who could fix that?

The crazy thing about this journey is that blow drying my hair became important to me for the first time in my life. During the 24-hour stays in the hospital, the bedside vigils, the at-home care, IV tubes, bed pans, transfusions, and tears, I made sure to blow dry my hair and put on lipstick. I must have looked pretty incredible standing beside my husband on that last 21-day hospital stay.

I arrange to take the time from work today to make the 90-minute drive to the city. I sit beside him as he drives and reflect on all the other times we have made this very same trip—to get the news of his diagnosis, to receive the life-saving chemo and radiation, to have three surgeries. Wasn’t this the same route we took to bring our two children into the world? What a stark difference. Plenty of recent days this trip felt like we were driving off a cliff. We have now taken this very same path as he vomited into a plastic garbage bag, shivered from fever as he fought infection, and when he was so medicated I was afraid to ride beside him as he drove. I let him drive that day. He asked. He was so frail. I wanted him to feel normal, just for a few minutes. So he drove and I was scared. My hands shook on all those days. My hands are shaking today. But, this day, three months since he was declared cancer free, he looks good as he drives with steady hands and concentration. He even answers a few business calls on his cell phone.

My hands still shake. I am scared. I watch as he takes those calls. He laughs. Isn’t he scared as we ride toward the news of his fate? I watch him and wait until he puts his phone back in his pocket. I ask him if he is frightened about today, about our new three-month routine. He responds, “Frightened of what? The news will be good today.”

I again think of all the articles I have read on caregiving and how they are encouraged to share feelings and find someone to talk to. There have been moments when I have felt so lonesome. Don’t the authors of those well-intended articles know that when your spouse, your rock, your strength, is down, it is almost impossible to find someone to share feelings with?

He’s not scared. I don’t believe him. When he began to feel a little better, he reorganized our finances and included passwords and tips on every file. It seems like anyone could step in and handle the details. Something he has always done. He doesn’t think I noticed this or all the other small changes.

These days he calls me throughout the day. We text message our love and even exchange sexy flirtations. There were too many years in our 27-year marriage that we did not need to connect during the day as we worked painfully demanding jobs and hustled about to care for our two children. Now, we need to connect.

And, he’s always been the stronger of us emotionally; the steady hand; the one who quiets my fears and those of our children. Is it possible he is just saying he is not scared because he doesn’t want to frighten me? Like always? Like before?

I want to tell him it’s OK to be afraid. We can endure. Our faith will carry us, no matter the outcome today. But, as we wait for the oncologist, we sit quietly and read magazines. I read another article on taking care of the caregiver and promise myself to write an article about the emotional journey. I reach for his hand. I need to be connected. I want to cry. I hold my breath.

What has happened to my courage today? I am not surprised by today’s reactions. There has been a wild range of emotions that has invaded my personality over the past 16 months. I have felt searing pain in my heart as he has suffered, panic as I thought he was getting too sick to recover, disbelief as I watched him receiving the first round of chemotherapy, and guilt from the anger toward him for ignoring symptoms for months. Then, in a matter of moments, those emotions would be replaced with gratitude and elation for the small triumphs. And then there was the grief; for the faces of our children as we told them the news; grief for what we lost; grief for what we could lose and even grief for no longer having a mom to call when I needed her so much.

There have also been moments in the past few months that I have been overwhelmed with gratitude. Today, as I watch the oncologist do the exam, I am just overwhelmed.

The news is promising. I can breathe again. We rush to the surgeon’s office. I am exhausted from not breathing. More good news.

Three months until the next follow up. The ride home goes quickly. I barely see the road. I pray several times and thank God for this beautiful day. I am inspired as my husband reaches for the cell phone to take a call from a friend. “The news is good. Yes, I feel great.”

I take a deep breath, smile at him as my heart warms, and put on my lipstick. After all, we will be celebrating today.