Craig and I often spend time apart – either because of work, family commitments or social engagements with friends.  For us, this is healthy, it lets us have space from each other while at the same time acting as a reminder of why we have chosen to spend our lives together.  And much as though I miss him, I look forward to these brief breaks.  So when he said he wanted to go to Scotland for a few days to see his Dad and spend some time with his old buddies, I readily agreed we should make this happen, despite, and because of, my recent surgery.

As during the past twelve months, with the exception of the inevitable work commitments, he has been at my side.  And at the same time, he has changed his job to a much higher profile role, lost his Mother and has been caught in the middle of a protracted and messy long-term sibling disagreement.  It’s no exaggeration to state his tenacity and commitment has been something of an inspiration for my recovery.

We don’t often speak of the toll on loved ones of a cancer diagnosis.  Personally, I feel it has been far harder on Craig than on me.  I see this sometimes when I catch him, unawares,  just watching me, or ‘spotifying’ our past summer holiday tunes, cooking incredibly tasty soups and stews to encourage me to eat when I’m suffering from the recurrent mouth ulcers or when he’s forgetfully wandering in and out of rooms. He has always told me daily that he loves me but now he says it with an intensity that I have no doubt of my responsibility for doing all I can to get better.  He regularly reassures me that he still finds me attractive, particularly during those days when I find my scars to be hideous or my skin-heavy tongue to be troublesome.  He encourages my forays into alternative and holistic healing, in-spite of any personal doubts.  He listens hard to my misshapen sounds and tunes out to my now atrocious singing, game fully joining in when the screeching gets too loud.  He laughs with me, and at me, when I’m being ridiculous.  He plans surprises big and small to keep me looking forward, supports my need to write this blog, sometimes correcting my grammar but often just letting it go to free my voice. He has gone from sleeping the sleep of the dead to waking at every sound and now seems incapable of sleeping any longer than 6 hours a night.  He  juggles his work commitments to accompany me to every hospital appointment and consultant review and apart from my banning him from coming to the intensive care ward, has been by my side every hospital day while pasting on his brave face for Roscoe every evening.  I don’t know how he managed to get through the day of my 12 hour surgery and emerge still sane.  I do know from the increasing amount of grey hairs on his head and, worry lines on his face, that my diagnosis and on-going recovery has been incredibly tough on him.

From a change perspective I am curious to know how he manages and chose my moments to ask.  It turns out he likes some rituals – like putting on the washing, organising clothing into piles of colour and texture and measuring out the soap powder (he has a mistaken belief that I have always used too much)  He finds cooking to be relaxing (washing and tidying up afterwards, less so).  He needs to get out of the house regularly otherwise he suffers from cabin fever.  Watching any kind of sport on TV is a form of escapism.  He understandably seeks more predictability and organisation than we have experienced in the past.  He needs us to take regular breaks away from home as a means of forgetting, for the moment, where we are and what we are facing.

And if I had to do it over again (and I ask the Universe to ensure this is never the case), what would I ask him to do differently?  I would ask him to get more organised support, I would insist on a therapist or counsellor for him to talk to – not because I think he needs therapy but to have someone to be brutally honest with, to not need to put on the game face but just express his  deepest fears and emotions  as a form of catharsis on the body.  I would encourage more fitness, of any sort, to help with his cortisol and adrenal levels.  I would make him take omega 3 good quality fish oil for his amygdala health and well-being.  I would ensure that his buddies invite him out more for blokey, manly activities;  golf, squash, poker, classic car gazing, banger racing – whatever men do – as unlike me he internalises and finds it hard to ask for support.  I would restrict the alcohol levels and insist on far less meat and far more vegetables, not just as a side dish but as a main meal.  I would encourage him to have more “me” time, re-join the golf club for example, and to spend more time with his mates, away from home stresses.  I would shout louder for him, for help, support and care.  I would have him go to facials and back massages so he would relax and enjoy more pampering. In short, unless he feels cared for, how can he give so much of himself without he himself becoming depleted and sick?

And now, while I have just loved my most amazing girly weekend, he has enjoyed some much-needed down time with his buddies.

So all hail  some time away from the vows, commitments and promises that we make and keep.

As we continue to live “till death us do part” with our eyes wide open and our hearts full of love.