Anticipatory grief

Zelda: We all feel sad after a loss. Anticipatory grief is feeling sad before a loss, and it perfectly describes how I've felt for the past few months. I’ve been overwhelmed by waves of despair at the thought of losing Zach. And yet, he’s right here with me, in the flesh. He hasn’t gone anywhere!

I’m doing my best to keep my head up, but sometimes I go under. I was watching TV the other day, and an Uber commercial brought me to tears. 

It’s been 6 years and 4 months since Zach’s diagnosis of stage 4 prostate cancer. For almost 6 of those years, things were nearly normal, with the exception of not makin’ whoopee. As one doctor put it, we had the luxury of thinking of it as a chronic condition, not a terminal disease. 

Every 3 months, we’d meet with Zach's oncologist to review progress and check his blood for PSA (prostate-specific antigen). Normal PSA is under 4 nanograms per milliliter (ng/mL). When it’s above 4, they test for cancer. When he was diagnosed, Zach’s level was over 1000.

The initial therapies kept Zach’s PSA under 50, which meant the drugs were working: They’d slowed the cancer growth. That went on for years, with only minor ups and downs when we changed drugs. But this year, his numbers started creeping up. They were just over 100 for a few months. Then they jumped to 300. Now they’re at 500—definitely not trending in the right direction.

And since we’re nearing the end of known treatment options, my mind is spinning, and the numbers are hitting me hard. Most of the info I’ve found online (grain-of-salt alert) says the 5-year survival rate for stage 4 prostate cancer is 20%. I’ve always known Zach was in the top 20% of humanity. Hell, I’d put him in the top 5%. But we’re well-into year 7 now, and it’s starting to feel like borrowed time. Hello, anticipatory grief.

I’m looking toward the future, and feeling sad about all the things Zach and I might not get to do together: Supporting each other as we grow old, reminiscing about the good-old-days with grand kids at our feet, having early-bird senior-discount meals at a local diner. And I find myself imagining what life will be like after he dies. I sometimes feel guilty for indulging these thoughts, when I should be focused on Zach and thankful for all the good times we've had. It’s intense.

I don’t want to burden Zach with my grief, or (heaven forbid) even speak about his life coming to an end. It feels like giving up. We don’t know for sure how long any of us have, and I don’t want to do anything that would shorten our time together.

I do wish I could talk to a friend about it, but that’s not an option. So I’m going to try to work through it in this post. Maybe it will help me find a path forward—or a way to stay above the waves.

I’ll start by listing the things I love about Zach—the things I depend on him for:

• Food. Zach has always done ALL our meal planning and cooking. I haven’t had to think about food since we met, which is great ‘cause I’m not good with it (read: living with eating disorders).

• Shelter & mechanics. Zach can literally build or fix anything. And if he doesn’t have time to fix it, he knows how to find the right person for the job. From roofing to plumbing to car repairs: He’s literally taken care of all the moving parts in my life for the past 35 years. 

• Design sense. Zach nails it, whether he’s arranging flowers or drawing a cartoon on a birthday card. He saves me from making foolish decisions about form and function.

• Humans. Zach is gregarious, outgoing, and good at reading people. I’m scared to death of most humans. My preferred communication method is hide and watch.

• Nurturing. Zach has a green thumb with plants and he’s great with kids. He knows just what to do when the leaves on a tree curl up or a kid falls down and needs comfort. My instinct is to throw them out and start with a fresh one (mostly talking about plants, but the inclination applies to both).

• Music. Zach has a vast, eclectic taste in music that spans generations and genres. And he remembers lyrics and the names of musicians, producers, and even their influences. I kinda like The BeeGees. But I couldn’t tell you who was in the band or recite all the words to any one of their songs.

• Humor. Zach always makes me laugh, even when I’m dead-set against it.

• Companionship. He’s my go-to for just hanging out.

Basically, he’s my Person. I can’t even remember what life was like before I met Zach, and I can’t imagine being without him or being with anyone else.

Of course, he relies on me for a thing or two, but that’s another post. 

And there are personality traits I’ll miss desperately:

• His voice, his laugh, his breathing, the way he clears his throat, even his snoring. I want to record all his sounds, so they’ll stay with me forever.

• The way he corrects me when I’m doing things “the wrong way” according to him.

• His constant innovations and productivity improvements.

• His dark sense of humor.

• The way he slaps my butt when I need it (and honestly, I need it a lot).

 

Zach is there in everything around me: His boots by the chair, his laundry behind the door, an old bottle of Jack on the counter (he’s saving it for a special occasion). And our place is full of his unfinished projects, like the box of wine corks, saved to replace the cabinet pulls in the kitchen, and the enormous tub of new parts to get the old Austin-Healey running again. They all seemed so important once, but they’re depreciating rapidly. And someday, those things will be all I have left of my Person.

Many of the older women I know are widows. My mom lost my dad when she was just 61. Gram lost gramps when she was in her late 50s. So many of my aunts and uncles lost their partners way too early. They all had the love of their life for a time, and then they were alone, sometimes for decades. I don’t know how they survived.

I’ve read that anticipatory grief can be a positive thing. It can give people the time and space to begin processing grief before their loved one dies—a head start on recovery. For anyone out there still reading: Is that true? Does it work?

I'm looking for advice: How do I keep anticipatory grief under control so it doesn’t add to Zach’s stress? What can I do now to keep my memories of him—of us—from fading later on? I’ve invested 30+ years into this relationship. I want to remember every detail.

Feeling fifty shades of grief right about now. Thank you for listening.

—Z. Prime