A man died today. He was around my age. He had 2 children a little older than mine.
I did not know this man. I wasn’t his friend, nor even an acquaintance. I didn’t know his wife, or his children. They live thousands of clicks away, in another country.
All I knew of him were the words his wife used to talk about their lives, on the internet. She had a twitter account, which led to me finding her blog, which led to my discovery that she has an illness like mine, and kids with neurodiversities and a great number of other things in common with my own family. It was just under a year ago that I first heard about his cancer.
Soon after, the family was celebrating. The man had beaten back the cancer. His body had fought it off. They were overjoyed. He would be around to see his children grown, and I silently celebrated, too. Yay, science! Yay, medicine! Yay, human spirit!
Then last November, devastating news – the cancer was back.
But it was all OK, right? He’d beaten it once. There were lots of possible treatments available. He’d beaten it already, he could beat it again. They tested his siblings to look for bone marrow matches, hoping to boost his ability to fight. They gave him chemo aggressively. They fought it with everything they had.
Not long ago, things took a turn. They couldn’t give him bone marrow. They couldn’t find a chemotherapy that would stem the tide. His body got weaker, but they still fought. He fought. He kept going. He spent time at home with his family between treatments. He never gave up. I silently cheered him on. I rooted for him the only way I could: in spirit, from afar. I’ve nothing to share but words, nothing to give but good thoughts. I felt helpless, but I still thought of how the human spirit can overcome things, and even if science wasn’t helping, he may still be able to recover. Greater miracles have happened.
Around a week ago, he – they – made a choice. It was time to stop pumping poisonous medicines into his system, and give his body a chance to try on its own. It was time to go home, to heal, and to find peace. I admired him for it, I don’t know how I would have handled it. And I still hoped.
Yesterday, he lost the ability to communicate with his loved ones. Last night, his wife and children reached out to him, trying to ease his suffering, to prepare for whatever was to come. They gave him comfort and love in his final hours. Whether he could communicate it or not, I know he knew they were there.
It was their last night together.
He died about an hour ago.
I didn’t know this man… but I’m sitting here in tears, feeling empty… feeling angry that this man couldn’t be saved. Feeling irrationally frustrated that 2 people I’ve known with lymphoma have survived, and he did not. Feeling anger that those people were older, with grown families, and they’re still around, yet this man – a man not that different from me – is gone. A husband and father has been lost, a man so clearly needed by his wife and children, and that feels like a huge injustice.
My heart is broken for them. I don’t understand this pain for someone I didn’t really know. I try to use reason to overcome this sense of grief, to mitigate this crushing feeling in my chest when I think of them.
And I can’t. There’s nothing I can do for them, no words that can make it better.
So now, I’ll just go to bed and cry.
For a man I didn’t know…
