Sarah would hate that I talk about her so much these days.
But what else is there to do when a best friend and mother of your children dies? For those who may not know, my wife, Sarah, succumbed to ovarian cancer on Sept. 15, a disease she had bravely battled since January 2022. It wasn’t a topic we talked about openly and aloud with many people outside of our little family. Sure, we wore teal and there were fundraisers, and if you asked, Sarah would mention her diagnosis without going into great detail.
She always said she was feeling OK, even though she was usually in pain.
That was just her — people weren’t to make a fuss or feel sad or take pity.
But during an extended hospital stay that went into early September, we learned the end was near and we got her first into home care, then to the excellence of Hospice Simcoe for her final day.
I was lucky to have a proper goodbye, to hold her hand and cry into it. To see my daughter dance for her one more time. To sit together with our son for one last episode of The Simpsons, a show that had given us so much laughter, comfort and levity over the years, before shutting off the lights, saying our ‘I love yous’ and going to sleep in that hospice room on the last night.
She was gone a few hours later.
I’ve been a wreck at times since then — I must have shed my body weight in tears during that initial week without her. And between the long stretches of grief, there is stuff to plan and cancel and return. The weight is heavy for those left behind.
But what many people don’t get is that a death like this can also bring a sense of relief and it’s OK to feel conflicting emotions. I would do absolutely anything to get Sarah back. But knowing that after 2.5 years her pain is gone, my kids no longer watch Mom slowly deteriorate and I have exited the emergency mode that gripped us for so long brings with it a bit of peace and opens the door to healing.
And in those moments of clarity, I’ve tried my very best to remember the woman I pictured growing old with and to not make the final chapter her entire story. I can still smell her favourite perfume and hand cream when I focus hard enough. If I extend my fingers, I swear they still touch her soft, dark hair, which I would often caress as we’d sit on the couch and settle in for the night together.
I find myself wanting just one more eye roll for the bad dad jokes I still make each day.
Sarah and I grew up living within a short drive of each other, but she went to Catholic school while I did the public stream. We met on a dating website in our 20s, and after only being together for maybe a month, I bought her an airplane ticket to Paris, France, so she could join me for a week as I backpacked through Europe that summer. I thought Sarah’s parents were going to kill me, and that they assumed I had a deeper plan to kidnap her and never return.
But we were in love. And after that week, she went home and I continued on my adventure. Then I returned and we shaped a life together, and then a family.
She built strength and determination in our kids that now I simply have to channel.
But what is the lesson I am to take away from Sarah? What do I treasure? How do I keep her alive in spirit?
I am trying to love and appreciate more. To empathize. To show resilience.
And when something grabs at my heart, I’m going to chase it. Because you come back from abroad.
Chris Simon is the editor of InnisfilToday and BradfordToday.
