The last six months of my life had been surreal. My husband John had to return to the US for work in the last quarter of 2019. He was supposed to stay there from November to December, but a drunk driver totaled his car in Las Vegas and caused him to become comatose.
When John woke up a week later, the doctors found a dark mass at the back of his head. My husband then had a successful craniotomy, so we thought that everything was finally under control. Removing that dark mass, however, allowed the specialists to detect that he had a brain tumor.
This news did not sadden us too much because it was still treatable. John was in an excellent hospital; his company assured us that they would pay for any treatment that he might need. And so, my husband’s chemotherapy sessions started soon after.
At this point, I wanted to stay with him at the hospital. Unfortunately, my pregnancy would not allow me to travel alone. My kind sister-in-law, therefore, visited my husband every day and took care of him on my behalf.
As February 2020 rolled in, John only had four chemotherapy sessions to complete. He had already lost 30 pounds, but his fighting spirit was stronger than ever. On that fourth to the last session, though, my sister-in-law called me and said that John passed out during chemotherapy. When I got to talk to my husband, he told me that it was because he was pushing the doctors to give him more dosage than his body could handle. This way, the treatment would be done early.
I manage to coax John to skip next week’s session so that he could recuperate. I thought, “What’s one more week of waiting if it meant that he would be in better shape?”
When March came, he only had two more sessions left. My husband and I were both happy since he seemed closer to going home than ever. But he also told me about his fear of acquiring the coronavirus. There were already a couple of patients with COVID-19 in the same hospital, you see. My husband said, “I wish I won’t get this disease. Otherwise, with my weak respiratory and immunity systems, it can kill me.”
Despite our nightly prayers, John started complaining about body pain, fever, and other symptoms of COVID-19. When the positive results came in, he only had to complete one chemotherapy session. The following week, my husband died.
At first, I did not want to believe it. “John and I had so many dreams we wanted to fulfill; he could not be gone already,” I kept on reiterating. Even when my sister-in-law brought his ashes to me, I refused to look at it. However, acceptance began one day when I saw our old photos, texts, and videos. I comforted myself with these ideas:
My Husband Does Not Feel Pain Anymore
Whenever I ask my husband how he felt, and his typical reply was, “I’m good. I just want to be done with all these treatments so that I can come home to you.” He never complained about the physical or mental exhaustion of being in such a helpless situation. Still, I saw it in his face every time we would do a video call. Now that John is already in the after-life, though, I know that the pain no longer bothers him.
He’s Watching Over Me
My husband has always been my protector. When he was still alive, we made a pact to be each other’s guardian angel. I have never expected it to happen so soon, but I am sure that John will keep his promise.
I am still sad about many things. I am sad that my husband has gone through all that without me by his side. I am sad that we have not even said our final goodbyes. I am sad that my unborn daughter will merely know her father through my videos and photos. But no matter how sad I feel, I accept that my John has passed on already.
My only hope is that a cure for coronavirus will soon be available so that no one will die like my husband.