I’m not quite sure what to title this entry. I guess it doesn’t really matter. This will likely be the only entry I ever post but I think it’s an important one, and it’s one I hope helps others avoid some of the “mistakes” I made after my spouse was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. I put mistakes in quotation marks because a friend insists they weren’t mistakes, but things I wish I had done differently. She may be right but right now they feel like huge, unforgivable mistakes.

First, some background. This story is about two guys who fell in love. If that’s a problem for you, you should probably move on now. My name is Mark. I met my partner of 26 years in 1987. His name was Tony. I was 26 years old and he was 33. We were inseparable from the day we met. Together we had a huge circle of family and friends who we loved passionately and who returned the favor in spades. Over the course of our 26-year relationship we enjoyed family reunions; we celebrated the births of nieces, nephews, and

grandkids; and we sang and ate cake at countless birthday, retirement and graduation parties. We encouraged each other professionally and achieved success that at times surprised us. We stood by each other as we buried our parents, first his mother and father and then mine. We were, as they say, soulmates, and very early in our relationship I understood exactly how lucky we were to have found each other. I fully expected that he and I would grow into old, doddering men together, and someday one of us would go through the heartbreaking task of burying the other. That happened, only without the “old, doddering” part.

In December of 2012, Tony’s leg began to hurt. For a few days he thought he had pulled a muscle. And then it began to swell. He went to the doctor, and they found clots. They put him on blood thinners. When that didn’t work, they put a filter in his carotid artery to catch debris that might travel to his brain if something broke loose and then injected him with powerful clot busting drugs. That worked, but only temporarily. There was obviously something significant going on, and in March of 2013 they figured it out. Tony had stage 4 lung cancer. We were stunned. Tony didn’t smoke and had been in excellent health prior to developing clots. He went through the usual treatment regimen – chemo, radiation, and thoracic lung surgery. The treatments prolonged his life, but only briefly. In the middle of the night on June 1, 2014, I sat in the bedroom holding his hand as he quietly left this earth to continue the next phase of his journey.

In the days and weeks that followed, I realized some things that I wish someone had told me when Tony was first diagnosed. I’m going to share them here. Take them for what they’re worth. They may or may not be applicable to you or your situation. But if they are and you’re on a similar journey, I hope they help.

1. I didn’t own it.

I don’t know that I really believed Tony was going to die. Intellectually, I knew. But on some level I think I refused to believe it. Initially we were hopeful that he would be one of the few who beat adenocarcinoma. We knew the odds weren’t good but, as they say, hope springs eternal. When it became apparent he would die, I should have embraced that fact. I should have held it in my hand like a jewel. I should have owned it. Instead I pushed it away. Embracing it would have given me perspective that I only have now. With that perspective, I would have recognized how precious each moment was. I would have stopped worrying about the minutia and seized every opportunity to be together, to hold hands, and to make each other laugh. I wish I had looked in the mirror and told myself in no uncertain terms what I knew to be true – the love of my life would be gone very, very soon and each remaining day with him was precious.

2. I didn’t say it.

I know Tony loved me and I am certain he knew I loved him. But I never told him why I loved him, nor do I think I adequately expressed how much he meant to me and how much he shaped my life. He and I made a great team. We encouraged each other, we goaded each other on when things were tough, and we had fun together. We made each other laugh. He complimented me all the time, and whatever criticism he offered was always good-natured and tempered. He was an incredible man and I was very lucky to have met him. I wish I could say with certainty that on the day he died he understood exactly how much he meant to me and how much he had shaped my life in wonderful ways. But I can’t.

3. I missed opportunities.

Cancer is a blur of appointments and treatments. Over the course of 18 months, we spent hours in the car driving to and from appointments. We made countless visits to the oncologist, the radiologist, the pulmonologist, and the hematologist. We were rushed, we were often running late, and we were stressed. I wish I had instead seen the time spent driving to appointments as an opportunity to shut out the outside world, relax, and be alone together. I wish I had spent that time holding his hand and telling him how much he meant to me. And that might have happened had I not made mistake number 1.

If you've been through something similar and have advice you think might help others in the same situation, please feel free to comment.

- Mark