Before Christmas in 2011 my husband Ted was diagnosed with stage III Melanoma cancer. Though he'd gone to the doctor only for chest pains, and even the doctor at first suspected heartburn-or-something, the cancer had already spread to his Lung and Lymph nodes. No, he never smoked but that's the first question everyone asks. Getting the news that my apparently healthy partner of (then) 17 years was almost certainly going to die soon was like being punched in the gut. The doctor had refused to give a time estimate, but Ted, who was very fond of research and information, looked it up fairly early on. Others with Melanoma cancer tended to last about 6 month if detected. Nobody lasted two years. We cried. We held each other a long time. We wished it weren't so. And then we started calling parents and friends. With each phone call, we shocked and saddened someone else who cared about us. We both slept badly that first weekend. Somewhere between the bad news and the radiation treatments (accompanied by steroids) that happened early on, one of the doctors apologized for having forgotten to give him anything to help him sleep. No one ever suggested any such thing for me. (I recall reading an article some time later describing some study that found all sorts of stress reactions and stuff in spouses of those with cancer and thinking, "We needed a study for this? Duh.") Cancer is a slow death. The things about cancer and the side effects of its treatments that are visible to the outside world are the things that are relatively minor, in the grand scheme: loss of hair due to radiation and chemo, weight gain (radiation+steroids) followed by weight loss (inability to keep down food during chemo). Ted also had, at various times, nausea, a change in the way everything tasted, hiccups that sometimes lasted for hours, acne (reaction to one of the drugs), neuropathy (pain and/or loss of sensation) in his feet, and a strong sensitivity to cold foods and drinks. Still, he stuck it out and in April 2012 there was a new drug released which made it look as if the cancer had disappeared. Hope came up again and took over. Ted made up his mind fairly early on that he was not going to give up, and that he was not going to spend whatever time remained sulking. At one point, he felt well enough that we renovated rooms and got other things done that felt urgent to us. Mostly, we talked about his cancer when it came up and seemed the right thing to talk about, and talked about other things the rest of the time. He never enjoyed being the center of that sort of attention, or of having to rely on others for basic things or ask for help. He went through several rounds of Chemo, several rounds of ration, several rounds of drugs and now totally depends on painkillers and narcotics. He is so very brave and I admire him (like I always did, just a bit more these days I think) We decided to get re-married. Initially we had intended to wait until we were legally married at least 20 years (we got married in July 2000) but the time in March seemed to suit us both. It was no lack of commitment; or love. Our partnership and relationship didn’t lack in anything at all. Few days after his 71st Birthday it became obvious, that there would be no hope anymore for him. It became suddenly clear that every day from now one was one day more closer to death. At first it was like a shock for both of us but I learned a lot about how to be his nurse, giving him his medications, bathing him, getting him out of bed when he was able (hugging is a wonderful way to help lift someone) and now giving him all the comfort he needs since he can not leave the bed anymore. He keeps telling me (I think) that he wants to die and that he loves me and would like to help me. I keep telling him that everything is fine (although Lucy told me different this morning) and that I love him and that he is very cute and the best man that I have ever met in my whole life. It is not his mind that is failing (unfortunately the drugs are taking care of this now), but his body. I think that his spirit begin to fade. He sleeps, mostly. In one of his last lucid moments yesterday, he spoke candidly with me. He said he has a lot to do yet and doesn’t know how to die. I told him I didn't think he needed to know how, that it was probably a lot like being born. It just happens naturally. And I'm pretty sure I told him I loved him and stroke his cheeks. I am wetting his lips when he needs and help him lie comfortable and without too much pain. I now crush his pills up he can not swallow much anymore and give it to him in few spoons of fresh baked blueberry pie. His legs are cold and purple so far. I keep the heating blanket on him just to comfort him. Lucy who is 13 years old and is Ted’s shadow could not manage to climb onto our bed anymore but today she managed and now is not leaving his side at all. River brought him a bone and laid it onto his chest. I just hope that his death will be peaceful and quiet and that he has no pain at all and that I am the last person he sees. He died around 7.50 am on Friday March 29th 2013, just a couple days after his 71st birthday and two years, almost to the day, after his diagnosis. In all, we were together 19 years. I have no regrets about the time I spent with Ted. I don't think I will ever forget what he looked like when he died. His head leaned to one side, his neck lacking the strength to support it. He turned pale, and it was a quiet death. That was the moment he ceased to be the person I had known. Still, it's hard for me to recall that part, to bring it into my mind enough to write about it. I called the ambulance and the Paramedics did a quick ECG and pronounced him dead, Then, they advised me to summon someone from the mortuary to collect his corpse. He had given his body to the University of Saskatchewan for Research purposes of Melanoma cancer. After that, I don't remember a lot of details, only that there were a lot. I spent the night for the first time in a long time, in a conspicuously empty bed and of course I miss him for himself, his sense of humour, and all the things I fell in love with him for. But I seem somehow to feel his loss most keenly for all the things he did for me that I can't or don't like doing: creating and maintaining an amazing home network that's now gradually deteriorating in ways I don't understand; cooking every other time we ran out of leftovers; doing nearly all the shopping (I dislike shopping); tackling the monthly bills; snuggling when I was feeling down; pushing me to keep trying; and even just telling me, gently, when I was being foolish And it is hard to move on without feeling a bit selfish, too. Would I have learned as much about myself if I still had him sheltering me from the things I don't enjoy, and guiding me and rubbing off on me in as many ways as he did? I did not adjust quickly to having to maintain everything about my home, lifestyle, and job entirely by myself, and in some ways, I still have not. It's hardest, though, to figure out who I am without him and strive to be that person. In loving memory