Watching My Wife Die
“Sometimes you have to say enough is enough.”
It is late afternoon. Lynn and I are in the living room, she in her wheelchair, me in a folding chair in front of her. There is one light on, leaving most of the room in shadow.
Dr. Hellman speaks calmly, gently. “If you go back to the hospital now, you will probably never come out,” he says. “The radiation may slow it a little, but there’s just too much cancer. We’re not going to beat it, and the treatments will make you even weaker. If there’s ever a time to stop treatment, this is it.”
Lynn lets out a long sigh, her eyes brimming. Then she nods and says, “Yes, I’m ready. Let’s stop.” Her voice is thick, the words come slowly, and for the first time I acknowledge that it’s not just the pain that is doing this to her but also the tumors in her brain.
Letting Go Together
Part of me can’t believe all our work is over. And yet, it is also a relief. Ever since the cancer began growing again, we’ve been winding a spring tighter and tighter, each turn more difficult than the last, until finally even one more twist is beyond our strength. Now, we can let go and just be together.
Dr. Hellman says he will put in the order for home hospice; we should expect to hear from a social worker in the morning. Lynn asks whether we need to tell Cynthia that she’s not coming in for radiation, and Dr. Hellman says no, he will take care of it.
We hang up and sit quietly for a minute, then I go into the office and write the post to tell our friends. When it’s done, I heat up a light dinner, and for the third time, Lynn and I sit at the small kitchen table holding hands and talking about what’s truly important. We did this seven years ago, after the initial phone call from Dr. Weinstein, and then again when we came back to the city last fall and had to start treatment all over again. Now I think we both know that this is the last time we will get to talk like this.
Getting Closer to Dying
Lynn is still in her wheelchair, clearly experiencing intense pain. She speaks haltingly, in short sentences, as we try to give each other comfort.
We imagine how hospice will play out, what dying will feel like, how I will be afterward, and what I will do. I promise Lynn that, to the extent possible in a state where assisted suicide is against the law, she will have control over her death. All she has to do is stop eating and drinking and the end will come fairly soon. “No matter what happens, I will never force food or liquid into your mouth. If you close your lips, I will understand what that means.”
It is the most important promise I have ever made.
Contradiction at the End
Then it’s Lynn’s turn to say a series of sentences that I don’t interrupt. We are talking about what will happen after she’s gone, when suddenly she says: “I want you to get another girlfriend.” Then she pauses and shakes her head: “No, I don’t want you to have a girlfriend.” Then: “I do want you to have a girlfriend.” And then: “No, I don’t ever want you to have a girlfriend.” And finally, after a longer pause and a more forceful nod, “I want you to have a girlfriend.”
Lynn wants to keep living but knows she can’t; she wants to hold on to me and the cats forever but knows she can’t, and she wants to take care of me as much as I want to take care of her. She wants to give me the comfort of another happy life, another girlfriend, and she also wants me to stay bound to her forever. And she is comfortable enough with the contradiction to let me know both.
This excerpt is from Carrying the Tiger: Living with Cancer, Dying with Grace, Finding Joy while Grieving, by Tony Stewart. Copyright © 2025 Anthony Stewart. Reprinted with permission from West End Books.
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Read more about spouse-loss: The Emotions of Spouse Loss – Open to Hope
