In a span of six days in 2023, one-time Hong Kong expat Brent lost his wife Anoushka to cancer, had the stepdaughter he’d raised since she was a toddler taken from him, and then lost his mother to cancer too. This is his story about loss and grief and trauma.
When Anoushka was first diagnosed with breast cancer, it was a terrifying time. A flurry of doctors’ visits and intense conversations left me knowing this was serious and scary and horrible, and might not end the way we wanted it to. Yes, one in eight women get breast cancer in their life, but it’s rare to get a diagnosis at 39.
We had two children – my step-daughter and our five year-old – and I was faced with the very real possibility that I would become a single father to young daughters. I couldn’t imagine raising the girls without Anoushka.
When someone in your life has a serious illness, you end up in this weird place between extreme swings of emotion (fear, sadness, anger, disbelief) and the simple banality of life; bills must be paid, children raised, food eaten. It becomes this surreal existence where you try to be happy and there for your kids, but a new reality has set in, that life is not the same any more, and will likely not be again.
My reality was trying to survive day to day most of the time. Overwhelming emotions permeated our existence, we faced financial hardship, the children were slowly becoming aware that Mama wasn’t well. And then things got worse. I don’t remember when exactly I learned my Mom had cancer. We had a complicated relationship; there was no doubt she truly loved me and tried her best, but we had our ups and downs. I now faced another dilemma; was I able to spare the time to go and see her?
What would be the last year of Anoushka’s life was a blur of surgeries and urgency. We had moved to Bali and were trying to balance medical care in Singapore with a new life abroad. I was constantly torn – was I to be in Singapore with Anoushka, or looking after the kids in Bali?
As a last-ditch effort, Anoushka tried some treatment. It started well, but she was in a lot of pain and deteriorating. She could hardly sleep or move, and her energy levels were down… I hardly left her side after that, and came to the strong realisation that her time on this earth was short.
There is no pain like watching your beloved wife slowly die, without being able to do anything. I didn’t leave Anoushka’s side for the last few days of her life. She couldn’t talk or move, but once in a while she would open her eyes, squint, and search for me in the room. When she saw me, I could see she recognised me, and found solace in that. On what would be her last morning, I went downstairs to get a coffee. “I’ll see you soon, my love,” I told her. It would be the last words I ever spoke to her, as she passed away just as I was coming back upstairs.
Shortly after, I decided to call my mother, who was also experiencing her last moments. I was able to tell her I loved her, and I know she heard me. She died a few days later, during Anoushka’s wake. It’s now been five months since that week. I wish I could say the pain has gotten easier, but the truth is, it’s just gotten less frequent.
It’s in this vein that I share my story here; I’m hoping my own pain and trauma can be a beacon of light to other people who might be going through the same thing.
If you’re experiencing your own pain or loss and need help, Brent does one-on-one coaching. Reach out to him at brent@diem.coach or visit diem.coach.
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