The Waiting
January 13, 2006

Two weeks ago we learned that Patty, my wife, has a
growth in her colon that is most likely cancer. We were,
and to some extent still are, stunned. She's in great
health (we thought). Three days ago she was climbing
on the roof taking down Christmas lights

Now I am in the surgical waiting area. Her procedure
should start in half an hour, and I'm waiting. I'm sad
and scared and hopeful.

It was dark this morning as we drove to the hospital.
Last time we drove to the hospital in the dark it was
for Emma's birth, six years ago. Max was born in the day.

The scariest part of these two weeks has been
thinking about the kids. Patty is afraid of not
seeing them grow up, not seeing Max's next passion
(the current one is rocks and minerals), not seeing
Emma grow into a woman. My biggest fear is that
the light would go out of our lives, that we would
be a family of sorrow and loss instead of delight
and energy.

This morning just before the nurse took her into
the operating room, Patty said to me, "I know I
am going to be ok, but I still want to say goodbye."
I know she saw it in my eyes, but I couldn't bring
myself to actually say the word to her.

Deep down I KNOW she, and we, will thrive.
Still, I've had so much worry, anxiety, fear these
weeks. Waiting for the unknown.

One of the major messages, maybe the major
message, of my work is that all emotions are
valuable. I've really grappled with that this week.
It's so hard, so painful to be so anxious. I could
feel -- can feel -- myself on this brink between
hope and terror. I can slip away from it, then
the feelings come back.

I find myself resisting the fear, telling myself I'm
"giving in" when I imagine all the possible
complications and risks -- or her dying. I imagine
trying to tell the children, trying to be strong for
them and feeling so weak. And then part of me
sort of shakes myself and I think about something else.

So I've been trying to remember that emotions
are valuable. That these darkest and most
desperate feelings are helping me. They're helping
me focus my attention and energy on what I can
do to help. On bathing Patty in love and attention,
on organizing our wonderful support network, on
learning, on listening.

One of my patterns is that when I feel overwhelmed,
I withdraw. I retreat into work, into being busy.
But those retreats have no sanctity now. The
feelings come everywhere. As they should - they
are helping me stay involved, stay present, stay
engaged in this deep challenge.

At this moment, sitting here now as I write, I feel
only a little fear. Right now I feel sorrow -- because
someone I love is far away on the other side of those
doors. And the fear and sorrow are both reminders
of that love. In the last two weeks I've found
myself re-committing, re-connecting, holding onto
the essential adventure and creativity of our relationship.

Which I've taken for granted and ignored these last
few years. We've been married for 14 years, and it's
all too easy to forget why we've chosen each other.

I'm listening to a family talking here in the waiting
room. The patient's husband just said they've been
married 49 years. Makes me feel like a kid.

Patty and I both knew someday we'd be dealing with
issues like cancer. We both sort of assumed it
would be me grappling with serious illness -- she's
the "healthy one," and 4 years younger. We both
saw that as "someday," and we've been so so
surprised that someday arrived now.

So, I'm focusing on feeling grateful for the 14
years, and for the reminder of what's essential in
our relationship. I'd prefer to not be back in the
waiting room again until after 49 years of marriage.

It's 8:09 now. The surgery was scheduled for 8, but
Dr Allen said they usually start late. Now more waiting begins.

Waiting is hard. It's the uncertainty. The
powerlessness. Remember the "countdown music"
on the TV show Jeopardy? I can hear that in my
head. Waiting with hope, waiting with fear. The
unknown lurking just around the corner, or perhaps it's
dancing in light instead of lurking?

Then the fear comes back like a wave. For a moment
I feel like I'm drowning, then I breathe again. It feels
awful, but also awesome - I am humble in the presence
of this visceral power. I wonder what I'll learn from it now.

I will wait and see.

....

Now it is 4 hours later. I've seen Patty, we've laughed
and cried together. It feels like a weight has been lifted from my heart.

....

Now 18 hours later. Not the most romantic of vacation
destinations, but we're enjoying the time together. Patty
is resting now. We could just sit and wait... Instead all
morning we've been exploring where to go in Hawaii when
she feels better. Planning more adventures, and finding
moments of love on this one.

- Josh

--
Joshua Freedman
Director of Programs
Six Seconds Emotional Intelligence Network
http://www.6seconds.org
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