My Cowboy

Melancholy doesn't even begin to cover the range of emotions that I'm feeling as I sit here in the light of a single window on a rainy morning in January. The weight of the recent news that my husband is in stage IV of a rare form of cancer is weighing on me like a wet wool blanket. A blanket that was supposed to bring me comfort and warmth, now laden heavy by sad and angry tears, it serves as nothing more than a reminder that comfort, like life, is fleeting. I pause. I take another sip of yesterdays reheated coffee. My need to pour these thoughts from my subconscious supersedes any desire for a fresh morning brew.

The same words race across my mind's eye. "He's 44 years old. How did this happen?" And yet again begins the dark spiral of intimate questions dripping in doubt and self loathing. Could I have done something to prevent this? Could he have done something to prevent this? Why is this happening to me. Wait, no, this isn't happening to me, it's happening to him. Again, no. The two conditions are not mutually exclusive. Our journeys are not the same, but they are concurrent.

What is becoming of this man? This man that has never smoked and never done drugs. This man who only recently learned to love a good whiskey. That's my fault. I feel that intimately. He spent the majority of his life outdoors. He was strong and active and motivated. My cowboy, with his cowboy boots and his cowboy hat, recently learning to play the guitar. The quintessential image of strength.

How do I begin to reconcile the man I married scarcely 8 years ago, a man who only a short few weeks after learning that there was anything wrong with him is now unable to carry his laundry basket down a flight of stairs. Unable? Or unwilling? Is the deterioration I see in him really physical? Or is he simply psychologically drowning in the same questions I am. Is it both?

My eyes begin to well with the power of the inevitable again. As I sit here alone, I try to really feel what alone means. I do feel alone, but I sense it's a mere shadow of the depth of alone that I will have to face in the coming months. The tears flow freely now. The oncologist's words ringing in my ears. It would be a hard road, but it might not be a long one.

How do I begin to make the most of the time I have left with him when all of the work he used to do around here now falls on my shoulders. How do I go back to work at a real job to support us still be able to care for him. How do I rest even when I have the time when sleep remains so elusive. Where is the justice? Where is the equity? I hear my mother's voice in my head, "Life isn't fair." No Mom, no it isn't...

I'm angry. I'm angry for not loving him more. I'm angry at him for never learning how to love me. Pieces of my heart that I wasn't even aware of are shattering at the realization that my time to reconcile those two conditions is gathering speed as it races to its conclusion.