I’m Losing My Wife and I Don’t Know How to Live Without Her: A Husband’s Story of Grief Before Goodbye

I am not ready to say goodbye, but my wife is dying. 

They’ve told us it’s only weeks now. A glioblastoma. Inoperable. Unforgiving. 

I can’t say the word “terminal” out loud. It feels like betraying her. Like signing a condolense card I never wanted to write. 

 

Her name is Emily. 

She is the love of my life. Not in the way people say that casually, she is the love. The person who built a home with me. Who made sense of my silences. Who knew how to laugh when life was cruel and how to soften the hard edges I never learned to sand down myself. 

 

I haven’t cried in front of her. 

Not once. 

Because our kids are watching. Because she’s still here. Because someone has to be the steady one. 

And because if I start, I don’t think I’ll stop. 

 

We have two children. Both technically adults, but they still look like my babies to me when they sleep in their childhood rooms after hospital visits. They’re brave, braver than I am. They’ve been helping with her meds, making tea she can barely sip, talking to her like everything isn’t falling apart. I don’t know how to talk to them about what comes next. About a world without their mum. I don’t even know how to picture it. 

 

There’s a moment I keep replaying, three weeks ago, when she asked me if I’d be okay. 

I said yes. Of course I did. 

I lied to the woman I love. Because she needed to hear it. Because I couldn’t say: No. No, I will not be okay. I don’t know how to be in the world without you in it. I don’t know how to drink coffee alone, or go to bed on your side, or carry the weight of birthdays and graduations and weddings you’ll never see. 

 

I want to scream. I want to smash things. But mostly, I just sit at the end of the bed while she sleeps, staring at the rise and fall of her chest and begging whatever’s out there to let her stay a little longer. 

 

I’m not religious. But I pray now. 

It’s a quiet, desperate thing. Not even for a miracle, just for more time. For a little more laughter. For one more night where we can pretend she’s not dying. For the strength to hold her hand without shaking. 

 

People say, “Make memories while you still can.” 

What they don’t tell you is that every memory you make now is soaked in goodbye. 

Every smile is edged with pain. Every shared joke feels like a last line in a book you don’t want to finish reading. 

 

And still, somehow, she’s the one comforting me. 

She tells me how proud she is of me. She thanks me for brushing her hair, for bringing her flowers. She tells me the kids will be okay because I’ll make sure of it. And I nod, like I believe it. 

 

But the truth is: I’m terrified. 

I am scared of the silence that will come after. 

I’m scared of sitting at the kitchen table with only her empty chair across from me. 

I’m scared of the day I forget the sound of her voice. 

I’m scared of losing the only person who ever truly saw me. 

 

They say grief is love with nowhere to go. 

But mine already has a place. It’s piling up in all the things I won’t get to tell her. In the grandchildren she’ll never hold. In the photos we won’t take. In the space beside me that no one else will ever fill. 

 

I don’t know how to be strong anymore. 

But I will keep sitting beside her. 

I will keep kissing her forehead. 

I will keep whispering “I love you” even when she can’t reply. 

Because love doesn’t stop when time runs out. 

 

And neither will I. 

At Academy Care, we believe in empowering individuals to maintain their independence while receiving the compassionate support they need. Our tailored domiciliary care services are designed to fit seamlessly into your loved one's life, providing everything from occasional visits to full-time live-in care. 

 

 

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