sixth on the sixth 25 comments
This evening, just a couple of hours from now, it will be the sixth anniversary of Don’s death. Each year, I put up a few photos and try to write something that shares a few memories and also helps all of you to know what kind of person Don was. This is a really difficult task for me. Just looking through my photo library makes me very sad. Also, it makes me wonder why I didn’t take more photos of him — although actually, I did take many. I just wish I had more.
Anyhow, each time I write this annual post, I try to think of something new – something that I haven’t said before. This year, I would like to write about how things were in the last months of Don’s life. I feel that I need to write about that because it seems rather like I’ve woven a tapestry with a big hole in the middle — the hole that speaks of those last months of dealing with terminal cancer. In many ways, maybe those are some of the most important days in our almost 35 years together. Some of this will be hard for me to write, and perhaps hard for you to read. Of course, no one is obligated to do so.
As these first few photos illustrate, Don was a very strong, healthy man. He was a never smoker. He ate well — well, we both did. We hiked, snowshoed, cross-country skied, canoed, rode our horses, and were pretty much on the go all the time.
In November of 2007, Don became very ill. He had been coughing for awhile, but the doctors chalked it up to hay fever and asthma. They prescribed inhalers and other meds. However, his condition continued to worsen. A CT scan was scheduled and that revealed shocking results – a tumour in one lung, smaller lesions in the lung, and clear signs of metastasis in his spine and rib cage. Even the respiratory specialist he was referred to was shocked and perplexed. The CT scans and MRIs were showing terrible things going on in his body, and yet he scored about as high as a person possibly can on the respiratory tests even with one lung almost blocked by a large tumour. It was all very difficult to accept.
While waiting for further testing, Don became very ill in late November. I rushed him to ER one evening and he was admitted with extreme sepsis, caused by a lung infection associated with the tumour. It was touch and go whether he would survive. However, after a couple of days in ICU, he was moved to the cancer diagnostics centre and thus began a week of MRIs, bone scans, brain scans, blood work, a bronchoscopy and other tests. The results showed Non-Small-Cell Lung Cancer (NSCLC). The cancer was all over the place. As the radiation oncologist said, “There is no point telling you which bones have cancer – there are too many – so let me tell you which ones don’t.” Anyhow, I won’t go into all this — I think I’ve written about some of this before — but the results were so grim as to be almost impossible. One doctor after another came into Don’s room to deliver the latest blow. Eventually this struck us as hilarious in a bizarre way. It was like something out of Monty Python.
Through all of this, we held up remarkably well. In fact, almost every doctor made a point of telling us that we were really unusual — unlike almost any other couple they had ever met. We didn’t break down. We asked sharp questions. We didn’t give them shit or scream at them. We remained upbeat and optimistic in the face of the horrendous. Anyhow, it was an experience.
A few days later, Don was released. He had a PIC line to deliver very powerful IV antibiotics. During this time, he took a very heavy round of radiation on the tumour. He could not begin his first line of chemo (Cisplatin-Vinorelbine) until he was entirely recovered from the sepsis or the chemo would likely kill him. It was February before he could begin the chemo regimen.
It was good for me to assemble these photos today. The top bunch were all taken the summer before Don became ill. He looked and felt pretty good other than the persistent cough. The photo immediately above this paragraph was taken after Don had begun his first line of chemo. He continued to feel pretty good. We worked hard to develop a diet that would keep him very strong, healthy and retaining weight as lung cancer is a bastard for making people lose weight and become feeble. Don did all kinds of exercises each day – working out with weights, walking back and forth on the lane between the house and the barn. We actually got out and did a bit of hiking around when the snow was not too deep.
During this time, we both tried very hard to remain upbeat. It was difficult, especially when Don was taking prednisone (steroids) before and after a chemo treatment. He would become very emotional and cry at almost anything sad that came on the television. He loved watching the James Herriot “All Creatures Great And Small” television series, but I secretly cursed it because there was almost always some sad part that would trigger a terrible crying jag.
I contrived ways to surprise Don — like stomping out the “I LUV YOU” heart on the snow so that he would see it as we departed for a chemo treatment on a snowy morning. Believe me when I say that I probably pulled off some of the greatest acting performances of my life during that time – being cheerful 24 hours a day with Don, the doctors, the nurse practitioners, the home care nurses, and anyone else who touched our rapidly declining world. Again and again, we were told how extraordinary we were. We didn’t feel very extraordinary. I think we just wanted to try to help each other to get through what was, for both of us, a horrific time.
Don’s first line of chemo went so well that we felt some sense of optimism. However, as soon as those treatments ceased, the cancer began to grow very aggressively once more. It was decided to go on to a second line — this time, the drug, Taxotere, which is used to treat breast cancer. It totally bombed and after a couple of treatments, had done so much damage to Don’s heart that it was never good again and he had to take three different heart medications to keep him alive. It was all very devastating.
However, if you look at these photos taken in our living room, I think you’ll have to admit that Don looked pretty happy and cheerful. He was almost always this way — even toward the end. As I wrote above, it’s good for me to look at this photos once more — I never do as they hurt me too much — but good to see that he looked quite happy, well, and comfortable with Sabrina. All through this time, he could only sleep on a recliner chair and never in bed as the cancer in his spine made it too painful to lie down. I kept adding more and more layers of comforters to the chair, trying to make it softer and softer as the pain gradually became worse. We used to joke about how it was becoming rather like the story of the Princess and the Pea who had to have many mattresses to sleep on.
After the Taxotere fiasco, the last ditch effort was to try Tarceva – a once a day targeted therapy oral drug. Unfortunately, it was reserved as a third line medication which could not be tried until you jumped through the hoops of doing the first two lines. I’ve always been kind of furious inside about that because it was the Taxotere that really ruined Don’s health. Once he began Tarceva, he got all the horrid side effects — the rashes and sores in his mouth, but the pain in his spine began to clear up quickly. However, it was all too late. The cancer in his lung had progressed too far after not responding at all to the the horrible Taxotere drug. However, there was actually a period of about two days when the pain in his back was lessened to the point that he slept in our bed for the first time in months. I felt such relief. Unfortunately, that was short lived. He choked on a fruit smoothie one morning and I ended up having to take him to ER. His blood oxygen level had dropped off dangerously low (I kept a sensor to check it several times a day and saw the level tank suddenly). That day, I asked him if he wanted to just stay home or if he really wanted to go to the hospital as I was pretty sure they would keep him there. There was an unspoken message here. “You may never come home again.” He said to wait awhile while he thought about what to do. A little while later, he said he wanted to go to the hospital. We said goodbye to our dog, Sabrina, and I took him there.
The doctors in ER said he would have to go on a ventilator. That was the only choice. He would have to be sedated and they warned that he might never be able to come back off of it. I neglected to mention, but this is important — that Don had lost the ability to speak in more than a whisper about 4 weeks previous to this time. I leaned close to him to hear his wishes. He said, “I will try this. What other choice is there?” I nodded my head and told the doctors. They brought a clipboard with a piece of paper for Don to sign. He signed it and then they put an oxygen mask on him and began the process to sedate him and put him on the ventilator. I have a memory that is so vivid to this day. It is of Don smiling so bravely and giving me a big thumbs up as they put the mask on his face. Something about it always reminds me of some test pilot on an early super sonic jet, getting ready for take off. That was the last time that Don and I were able to communicate. From this point onward, he would be strongly sedated.
He was moved into ICU and received incredible care. I stayed by his side almost 24 hours a day, sleeping in a recliner chair by his bed. The staff were wonderful. I think back to all of them and still remember each and every one. I used to go home to feed Sabrina and be with her for a half hour twice a day — quite a drive as we were about an hour from the hospital. On one of those days, I dug up a folder of my 11×14 photos of dragonflies (left overs from a natural history museum exhibit of my work), and brought them in to give to a bunch of the staff. They were thrilled and asked me to sign them. Something about all this helped me to feel that this whole hospital thing is not entirely an inhuman machine. People really do care and the staff who work in these places are very special.
At one point, there was an attempt to reduce the sedation being given to Don, but he became extremely agitated. I happened to have left to go home to feed Sabrina. I returned to the hospital that afternoon to find Don tugging at the ventilator hose. His eyes met mine for a second and I could immediately sense the fear and fury. I stepped between him and the nurse and ordered her to increase the sedation immediately — which she did. He calmed down quickly.
A day or two later, one of his doctors told me that he thought Don was doing a bit better and that they thought they could remove the ventilator after the weekend. That seemed unlikely to me, but I was willing to believe anything. He advised that I go home and get some rest. I was pretty exhausted by this time and Sabrina was doing very poorly — not eating and growing weaker by the day. At midnight, I drove home and fell asleep on the sofa. About 9 a.m., I received a call from a nurse. She said that the doctors needed to see me right away. I asked why and she would not tell me. I told her to get a doctor on the phone as I wanted to know what was going on before I drove at breakneck speed to the hospital while still half asleep. I guess that must have scared them because a doctor came on the line after a minute or two. He said that Don had taken a turn for the worse and that there were matters to be discussed. I said I would be there within the hour. I called my mom and brother, Randy. They said they would meet me at the ICU.
When I got there, Randy accompanied me to the meeting with the doctor. He said he had done an emergency bronchoscopy to see what was happening. They also had X-rays up on a screen. He said Don’s lung was now full of cancer. They wanted to remove the ventilator because he was just getting worse and he felt it was wrong to carry on as his body was dying. I had actually realized that a day or two before. I could tell by Don’s appearance – the swelling in his legs and feet – and various signs on the heart and respiratory monitor screens. I studied the X-rays carefully and could see the extent of the cancer. There was no clear area remaining in his lungs. I spoke calmly, “There’s nothing left to do, is there?” The doctor replied softly that this wasn’t really a decision — that the cancer had decided all of this for me. I remember nodding my head and looking to my brother who looked distraught, but supportive. I’ve always been so glad he came there with me. I know it is about the last place he wanted to be, but there he was.
We went to Don’s room and I sat with him. In awhile, a respiratory technician came in and explained that the ventilator would be gradually stepped down. That’s what happened. I would not say it was uneventful. The machine had a ridiculous warning buzzer that kept going off every minute or two. I became greatly angered by it and my brother stood by ready to hit a reset that would stop the buzzing. I put my arm around Don’s head and spoke to him. I observed that as I spoke, his heart rate would increase and stabilize. I told him that when this whole mess was over with, we would blow this place and take off. His heart rate strengthened more. Then I would stop talking and it would drop down and become erratic again. This went on for awhile – me speaking and then going quiet. Finally, I said that he should just rest and sleep. Soon after that, he passed on.
I remained calm — sad, crying, but calm. I have seen all kinds of reactions in those ICUs – people screaming, yelling, falling to the floor. I did not feel that. I think I felt relief that this whole terrible thing was over with and that Don was now free. I spoke with his nurse – she gave me a big hug and told me that they would remove the ventilator and lines and then I could return. I went out in the hall and called my best friend to tell him what had happened. He had already told me that when Don died, he would catch the first available flight from Portland, Oregon, to come and help me deal with everything. He is a great friend – the one person who called Don every week to talk during his illness. Anyhow, when I returned to the room, my brother and mother were there with me. I passed my hands back and forth over Don’s arms and legs and body, memorizing how they felt to me. I still remember how he felt. Muscle memory never forgets these things. Then I noticed a pair of scissors on the bedside table. I suddenly knew what to do. I picked them up, held a large part of my hair out and away from my head, and chopped off a huge length. My glance fell upon my brother. He looked stricken. I coiled up the hair and placed it into the palm of Don’s hand and pressed his fingers closed over it.
I left soon after. I drove home alone to look after Sabrina. That night, I actually contemplated ending things. I had arranged it so that I could do so. However, when I saw how weak and pathetic Sabrina was, I realized that I’d have to kill her too. That seemed like a terrible thing to do, so I decided to hang around for awhile. My friend arrived the next day. He watched over me constantly. I have a funny memory. Interesting in a way.
The night after Don’s death, I fell asleep sitting up at one end of the sofa. I say “asleep”, but it was more like dreaming while awake. I felt a growing sense of warmth around me and pressure, like being hugged and held. It was a good feeling — a feeling of well-being. In the midst of it, my friend came racing down the hall yelling, “Where are you?!! Where are you?!!” He was in a panic. He’d fallen asleep and awoke, not seeing me around, and thought I must have gone outside to end things. I looked up at him – slightly sad that he’d broken whatever weird magic this was that had come over me for a short while. It was gone. But that’s okay. I’ve never felt it again. I sometimes wonder if Don dropped by the house to say goodbye. I’m an atheist, so that kind of thing seems a little out there, but it did seem real enough at the time. Who can say what things are real in this world and beyond.
Anyhow, I hope this post doesn’t seem too maudlin or bizarre. It’s just how things happened to two people who never really asked for or deserved such an experience. Even now, the whole illness thing seems impossible and unreal – almost like it happened to someone in another life. I still feel very close to Don – even at six years later. I keep a favourite photo of him next to his ashes. I speak to him briefly at least once a day, kiss my finger and brush it gently across his cheek. If that seems strange to some of you, well, then you probably haven’t experienced such a great love and such a loss yet.
Love to you always, Don.
Bev
25 Responses to 'sixth on the sixth'
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Thank you, Bev, for writing down these words. The way you and Don loved each other through this tragic illness is the most beautiful model for how it can be done. There is no avoiding the heartbreak of terminal illness, but the two of you faced it with hands clasped and hearts melded. That is the best source of strength. When I look at the pictures of Don’s beautiful face, I feel like I know him. That is the power of your love and your words. I really appreciate your ritual of kissing your finger and brushing it across his cheek. The physical act of an ongoing love, as holy as any prayer.
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Bev, you are a remarkably strong woman, but you have been through a hell that would crush people a thousand times stronger. How you withstood the pain and the pressure is beyond me, but I am so very glad you did. Your recollections of Don and the life you lived with him can help sustain you during the years that lie ahead for you. Having read about Don for years now, I think I know enough about him to know that he would want you to live a happy, fulfilled life after his passing; I encourage you to fulfill that wish for him.
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I’ve always been sorry we couldn’t have done more for the two of you through this – but often one becomes so centred in a crisis that everything closes in, and we didn’t know enough to know how to offer whatever we could have done. I remember the time the two of you stopped by in front of the Store on your way to somewhere – the last time we saw Don. Aleta also had a single dream in which Elsa visited her.
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Thank you for this post today that was written despite the difficulties it presented to you. You and Don have been in my thoughts today because at some point during the last six years I had written for September 6 in a calendar book that I go through every year:
Bev’s Don 7 p.m. 2008
The photos of Don with “I and the Village” behind him and the one of you are most moving to me, as are your words describing more of what happened in your lives during the months after you announced on your blog that Don was retiring due to health issues. So much of your story brings back memories of the last months before my Richard’s death in April of 2008. Although I didn’t feel his presence after he died, for the first weeks after that I had “word dreams” just before waking, which consisted of nothing more than simply hearing his voice say one or two words. I am not a religious person or an atheist or an agnostic, but I do know from experience that there is a timeless something which can manifest in us as love and that it doesn’t die.
Richard was unable to speak during the last months of his life, but his last “words” to me came in the week before he died in the form of a very very slow but determined thumbs up sign. Thank you for reminding me of that and for everything in this tribute to the love you and Don share.
With gratitude always,
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Hi Bev, Carol and I just arrived back in Ottawa for a week, then we will be returning to Nicol Island until the cold weather closes in near the end of October. We came back to accompany David to doctor’s appointments regarding his recently diagnosed advanced MS. Now both our children and our foster daughter have developed MS, and there is no history of it on either side of our families. There is something very unhealthy in this rural Ottawa environment! The other reason we are back is to visit Carol’s brother Bob, who was given 2 months to live with untreatable throat cancer 2 months ago. He refuses to go into hospital, but does have palliative home care. Your own experience with Don is a resonance I have endured many times. it took my mother 2 years to die at home of undiagnosed brain cancer when I was just 13. I spent those years doing all I could to help her manage my two younger brothers, and watched her endure many bouts of pain. My mother was the only person in my life who had loved me unconditionally, and after losing her I never let anyone touch me for years. I had one close friend in my teen years. Randal and I remained best friends until his death by brain cancer a few years ago. I spent that winter visiting both Randal and my brother Ben who also had terminal brain cancer. It was on the way home from visiting them both in different hospitals on the same day that I suffered a microstroke that took me months to recover from. Years earlier Ben and I spent two weeks with our brother Bill as he died in a Toronto hospital with his organs shutting down in a 1 in 10,000 reaction to a drug given him to treat a microbial parasite he had picked up on a Mexican vacation. And a year or so before Ben’s death our youngest brother, Rick, said his good-byes without telling us that he had been given 2 months to live with a fatal heart condition. I also supported my dad by refusing to give the veteran’s home permission to admit him to hospital for intravenous feeding after dad deliberately stopped eating and drinking water. it took him a week to die, and the last day when I said I would be seeing him, he was so weak he couldn’t move, but managed to wink at me. They all had good deaths except for my mother, and we resolved that after I felt her presence at my dying brother Bill’s side, and later met her in a dream where she explained she had to go, and I watched her depart, knowing I had to stay here a while longer because there are things I need to do. I do feel they are all still nearby – in a higher dimension at right angles to this 3-D physical world (as it is at right angles to the 2 dimensional world, which is at right angles to 1 dimension). Hence the word “angels” to describe those in spirit. So they are all just around the corner in the 7th direction of existence which is through the inner gateway of our mind. I do expect to join them all in celebration when I take a final leave of this physical body. Until then I hope to continue loving each precious day that we are here. Love and inner peace to all. So glad that you are still here too Bev! I have also started writing, working on my story about telepathic contacts with whales. I want to get it written before memory fails, as I feel it is a story the whales want to be told, because it shows them to be so much more than commonly believed.
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Thank you for this account. What a great loss you have suffered. <3
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Rain – A neighbour near my old farm said that she often felt her mother in her kitchen with her. I don’t think we should discount these possibilities. It would be nice to feel that Don is around, but the most that I can describe of him being around is that I seem to have a sort of “false memory” thing going on where I get confused and think he was here to see or do stuff with me at Round Hill, but he never was here. In my mind, it seems quite real, but he was never here in body.
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Robin – I often think it odd that some people think the love ends when one person is gone – but the love does carry on so long as the other lives. The passage of time is truly meaningless as some memories are so vivid that it as though they just happened yesterday. Rituals help to connect us to those people, places and events that are meaningful to us. -
John – In fact, I do know Don’s wishes and that he wanted me to carry on. He thought I should find a new place to go – he thought Nova Scotia would be good. I think he was right on that count. So far, I have done as he wished. I remain strong in spite of all that has happened.
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fred – Although we felt quite alone in so many ways, I think that Don and I felt supported just knowing that there were friends who cared. I remember stopping at the store and seeing you that day – I can’t even remember why — maybe dropping off a box of mason jars or something. Don really enjoyed those drives when I took him places and we saw friends even if only for a few minutes. -
am – When I think of Don’s illness and death, it also makes me this of Richard and you. It’s interesting that you mentioned the “I and the Village” over Don’s chair. That painting always seemed to have great meaning to us – in some ways, it seemed to describe our private world – the two of us and our life at the farm, surrounded by the animals we loved.
That is very interesting about the word dreams. I did experience something similar after Don’s death. I would hear his voice saying a word just as I awoke. It was a bit startling and confusing. Unfortunately, it made me sad as I would think it was real, and then wake to find it was some kind of dream or audio hallucination. I always wished I would dream of him more. I did have and still occasionally have what I call “hospital dreams”. They are not good and I would rather not have them.
I’m glad that the mention of the “thumbs up” would bring back a good memory for you.
Take care, bev
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Jim – I know you have been through a lot too — so much cancer. And now all this MS. It is all so very sad. I too feel there must be something very amiss there. But then, it seems like it is happening everywhere. It’s good that you have a writing project. I look forward to reading it when it is completed!
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Maggie – Thanks. It was difficult to write, but I’m glad that I did so. In a way, it seems to help to get these thoughts out of my mind and onto a page. And, yes, it was a very great loss. It’s been difficult to pick up the pieces. In fact, I’m still working on that. Take care.
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Thank you, Bev.
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To me, Bev, the big thing and the biggest lesson I take from your life is that you have gone on. You have not wallowed. You have loved and do love him but you have also understood life goes on and you can make it good. Survivor’s guilt stops some from ever doing that. From all you’ve said of him, he’d want you to live the fullest life possible.
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Betty – You’re right. The biggest lesson is about carrying on and trying to make the best of things. I know it is not easy and many times you might feel like giving up, but there is still a world waiting to be explored. I intend to do more of that before my time is over!
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Bev, I’m glad you wrote this and glad I read it. It reminded me of the memories I have of my mother’s illness and death from cancer eight years ago, which I tried to participate in much the same way you did with Don, knowing that the best way to help her was to be strong and cheerful, the way she was trying to be, and also that she trusted me to be her advocate and companion at the very end. It’s only recently that I’ve been able to look at pictures of her without feeling awful, though, and I’ve never written about her actual last days. Oddly, I think these incredibly painful experiences are also a gift: as much as I’d wish it had never happened the way it did, I learned a great deal about myself and about life, and maybe it will help me help others as you’ve helped us by writing this down. Like you and others have said here, the lessons are about endurance and patience, and about making the choice to keep on living fully. My dad was totally devastated by mom’s death, but eventually he too was able to start living again – he’s almost 90 now, playing golf and table tennis every day, living with a girlfriend — but he’s never forgotten mom and thinks of her every single day, and does his little rituals of remembrance. When you and I meet, which I really hope we will sometime, I’ll tell you a story about atheism and after-death experiences. You’re not crazy at all to think Don visited you.
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BTW, that’s a beautiful picture of you, too.
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Hi Beth – Thank you for the kind words. I had some reservations about writing this blog post – whether it was too sad or disturbing. It seems that for most it has been okay – maybe even helpful. My father’s death was much the same and I was his primary caregiver then, so this was my second time caring for someone close to had terminal cancer. I can say that I learned a great deal from both of these deaths. Of course, I wish that they and I had not had to go through any of this, but what I learned from my dad, in turn, helped me when Don became ill. One thing I can say to everyone is that cancer does not change the person. They are still the same people they were before the illness, and they need and deserve our love and support to the end, regardless of how sad and difficult that may be for friends, family and caregivers. I know first hand how important that is. The other thing is that, yes, the survivors do need to find a way to carry on. There is no “getting over it” — that is entirely unrealistic and, in truth, can never be, regardless of what anyone likes to say or think. However, in time, we will find ways to grow from these experiences, like a tree sending out new branches after losing limbs in a storm. It just takes time – sometimes years. I’m glad that your dad has managed to rebuild his life. That is wonderful. And, yes, I hope we do get to meet in person. I would like to hear that story!
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Thank you for this, Bev. This should never have happened to someone so young. It should never have happened to you. You write so beautifully about Don each anniversary of his death. Maybe some day you can put all the memories together in a small volume about him. Your lives together, his life and his bravery in facing the unspeakable are an inspiration to all.
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Thank you for sharing. A lots of time it helps the grieving process to write about the good times, but also the bad. You will never get over his loss, but you can let him live on through these wonderful stories. Life is what you make out of it and it seems like you did so much for Don. He was so lucky to have you. Missing uncle Don very much 🙁 Xoxox
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Joan – Thanks. Yes, you’re right. It should never have happened at all. That’s how it always feels to me regardless of how I argue with myself about how unfair cancer is to everyone. The rational side can always argue that these things just happen, but the emotional side of you will always wonder why and be sad and even angry. I may someday turn some of my thoughts into a book. Not yet though.
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Hi Michele. I agree about how it helps to write not just about the good times, but also the bad. I did try to make things as good as I could for Don. It’s too bad there was only so much I could do. If I could have traded places with him, I would have done so. Take care. x0x0x -
This was a very difficult and emotional post to read, but one I thought was necessary to read. I admire both of you for the way you handled that difficult time. I, too, am an atheist, so for me, there is no meaning to life other than what we give it. You all created meaning through your strength and courage. It really was a model for the rest of us.
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Hi Mark – It was a really difficult post to write. In fact, reading it over, reading the comments, and replying has even been difficult for me, but helpful, I think. It was a really hard thing for us to go through — for Don as he worried about my and what would happen to me — and obviously because he was in pain and dealing with a terminal illness — and me because I could not do anything much to stop the pain or change the prognosis — and also knowing I would soon be left alone. It was hard to be stoic, but I think we did pretty good at being there for each other to the end. Thanks for your kind words.
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Bev, I have quietly followed your blog for quite some time. I have missed your posts and am glad that you posted these memories, however painful. What a strong lady you are….. How difficult it must have been to live through this and talk about it now.
I hope that when the time arrives for me to say goodbye to my loved one, that I can face our tragedy with the same courage and dignity that you have.
Thank you for sharing.
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Hi, Wendy. I always wish that there were none of these goodbyes to say. I know that everyone says the price of love is eventually having to say goodbye, but it is a hard thing. Thanks for leaving a comment.
I did read it all and it’s very sad. Cancer is a cruel disease. As to the last thing, the feeling you had of pressure, I’ve had that experience once also. I also have had others who lost a loved one and saw them afterward. When my mother died, my daughter lived in Georgia. She said that she felt her grandmother stopped by to see her home there. I haven’t personally seen someone after they passed but I believe in it. As to what happens to those who die, I don’t know. I am not an atheist, but an agnostic which means I don’t know. The fairest thing of all would be reincarnation but who knows… In the end we all will find out– maybe 😉 *hugs*