Letters to Jason: February

February. It’s here.
6 months are approaching this month.
Half of a year. How can that even be possible?

It’s been half a year since you held me, or I held you. Since I got to hold you.

Half of a year.

Though, sometimes, the day you died doesn’t feel like the day I lost you.
I feel like I lost you, my Jason, weeks prior. When you declined so quickly. So so quickly that you lost yourself. I started to lose you. I had you, my Jason at the end of July. Glimpses of him. But so quickly he disappeared. That in itself was heartbreaking. But you were still here. For small moments in each day I day, you were in there. A shell of the person you used to be. And oh God how painful that was. You knew you were in there too. You were trying to show that. I remember I’d cry and you’d say I’m not gone yet. Then you’d grab me to hold my hand. You were in there, deep inside but hurting so badly.

I remember asking you the morning you died if you were ok. Feels like a stupid question now when I reflect back on it. You shook your head and you said no. I remember waking up in deep panic that morning and running out to the living room at 4am to see if you were still breathing.
You were.
Matt was there by your side asleep too. Maybe not less than an hour later he knocked on my door and I flung myself out of bed. Panicked. Is everything ok? He said yes, he just needed my help getting you to the bathroom. He lifted you to the toilet. I remember running to the other bathroom to vomit.

It was all too much.
I was watching you die before my eyes.
I didn’t mean to be scared.
I just knew this wasn’t good.
None of it was good.

My heart just hurts thinking about it. You were there. But you were not my Jason. I didn’t want you to die but I didn’t want you to live like this. I didn’t want any of us to live like this. My poor husband. My poor Jason. My heart aches thinking of the pain you were in. The fear that you felt. I remember at the end of July watching as the palliative care doctor even mentioned the term hospice, so that you could get the right pain meds at home. The tears flowing from your eyes down your cheek. Because in that moment, you were not done fighting. We still had the chemo as an option. You had just gotten your first dose and there were plans for more. I know how I felt. How dare she say that, yet. We were taking you home, to get stronger so you could get more chemo. They said there was a chance. Early August you would get more.

I held you. I told you I will never stop fighting for you. My voice shook.
That day, I loaded you into the car to go home.
Thank God, I thought. Jason is coming home.
I didn’t know I was bringing you home to die.

Everything happened so quickly. Everything changed rapidly. June 29th we went to the hospital. You had a stable scan. We thought the trial treatment was working. Everything was such a mess, between Sarah Cannon and UC health. Just getting Sarah Cannon to read the damn report against the last scan took over a week.
I remember an appointment with Dr Liu and he said from comparison to the April scan it looks like the mass may even be shrinking. But we awaited the read from Sarah Cannon, in comparison to the pre-trial scan. In that time you had already been discharged and then readmitted.
But they told us the scan was stable! We rejoiced. Stay the course.
Only 17 days later, you’d go back for another scan. I was shaking inside. Checking the portal every second. I got home from visiting you. I opened the report. My heart sank. You don’t need to be an expert to read the words “significant progression” and know it isn’t good. I sent Dr Liu a message in the portal and he quickly called me and said two things. 1. We need to confirm Sarah cannon agrees it’s not sudo progression. And 2. we need to find a trial for Jason and we will do chemo, I will get it all ordered should Sarah Cannon agree it’s time to stop the trial.

That was July 18th. One month later, you were dead.

If I know anything, I know this:

Time doesn’t stop. For anyone.

The seconds, minutes, hours they pass.

Even when my world stopped the day your heart stopped beating.

I’m paralyzed. I’m unsure what’s next or what life should or will look like from here.

I don’t feel like time is moving, becuase I’m simply trying to make sense of losing you.

Six months of just trying to survive, make sense of this, pick up the pieces of a broken heart and glue them back together. Except they are not all here, because they left with you. Even if I put the pieces back together, it’s not complete. I am incomplete.

I don’t know my objective. Or my plans. Simply just survive? Get up? Work? Then what?
I don’t know. I’m paralyzed. I feel stuck.
Yet time hasn’t stopped. And somehow it’s been six months without you.