In May, I lost my wife at 33 to stage IV stomach cancer.
Watching her slowly get sicker was agony. Death is one thing, but the drawn-out suffering changes you. Stangely in some ways it also time to say goodbye. Her family was mostly absent through it all, and toward the end, they turned hostile. Since losing her, I feel like I’ve lost everything else too money, stability, a career, a partner, even reasons to keep going.
From the beginning, I was grieving. After her laparoscopy, the surgeon took me aside and said it was stage IV. I asked what that meant, and he told me directly: she will die from this. I appreciated the honesty, I asked for it, but that meant I started mourning nearly two years ago, while she was still alive.
Through it all, her family treated her (and me) terribly. I try not to hold hate in my heart, I’m Christian and I let that go, but their absence and cruelty were undeniable. And it made no sense, because she was the brightest one among them. She organized youth cleanups in her crime-ridden hometown as a kid, devoted much of her career to helping autistic children, and was the first in her family to earn a master’s degree. She was joy and love embodied. She pulled me out of a 10+ year depression and showed me what it meant to be loved. She was my home.
But cancer changed our relationship. She became more my patient than my wife. I loved her fiercely, but I couldn’t lean on her, she had too much on her shoulders already. I tried to highlight small wins (clean bloodwork, the possibility of stomach removal, mutation-targeted meds) to encourage her, even though I knew the odds were slim. I worked full time and came home to bathe her, change her ostomy bag, manage IV hydration and nutrition, and clean up after the constant vomiting. Her family barely visited. Her father ignored her calls. Her mother helped here and there but often with resentment.
At one year in, she faced a blockage and we were told there was nothing left to do. But I advocated for her, pushed for surgery, pursued a treatment based on a rare mutation. We got her the surgery, we got her the medication, and she came home. She was tired, but she was still here. I bought her another six months.
I was beyond exhausted myself, but I took her on long drives whenever I could. Our relationship started with a road trip, and driving together was our thing. I wanted her to see the world outside our four walls, even when I just wanted to collapse.
Eventually another blockage came, and this time we both knew. Hospice was the only option left. I made the call. Her family accused me of “giving up” even though it wasn’t a choice, there were no treatments left. They started attacking me in group chats, even threatening me. Still, I let them come around, because I knew she’d want them near at the end.
Her final week was brutal. She was skeletal, unable to eat, barely able to speak. But she gave me two gifts I’ll never forget. One night, after days of silence, I told her, “You know I’d do anything for you, right?” She whispered back: “I know.” Another night, I lay in her hospice bed holding her. For the first time in days, her erratic breathing calmed. She slept peacefully. Hours later I woke up to her breathing changing again, and I knew. I held her close, told her how much I loved her, how proud I was to be her husband, how thankful I was that she chose me. I repeated those words until she let go.
Her family didn’t come that night. They didn’t help with the funeral or costs afterward, even though they knew I had nothing left. I’d supported us on one income for nearly two years. My landlord charged me thousands in fees despite knowing the situation. I left with nothing but debt and drove cross-country to move in with family.
Since then, my life has been unstable. I meet cruel people in unexpected places. Everyone tells me to “just get a job,” but I can’t even manage basic stability. Bankruptcy looms, but I’d still have student loans and risk losing the little I own. I tried seeing a psychologist here, they said I show PTSD-like symptoms, but I couldn’t keep up the appointments. I live in constant anxiety. Even small stresses knock me out for the whole day. Sedatives help a little, but not always.
I pray. I see small winks from God. But what I need is a big blessing, and it hasn’t come.
Her name was Mercedes. She was a beautiful person, and my heart will ache every day from her diagnosis until I die.
Thank you for reading. It’s hard being this alone.