Post 33: It Could Be Worse.
It’s a very scary thing when the person who cares for you—the love of your life—starts to look unwell.
Yesterday was meant to be my first walk outside since the pulmonary embolism. My Darling had just returned from work early afternoon, and we’d planned to go out together, just a short stroll. But as soon as I saw her, I knew it wouldn’t happen.
She looked more tired than I’ve seen her in a long time. Her brow furrowed, her skin pale and grey.
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “Can you check my BP?”
Her instincts were right. Her blood pressure was high—well over 140—but her heart rate was lower than usual. She climbed into bed, and I climbed in beside her. She fell asleep in my arms and stayed there, breathing slowly, for a couple of hours.
When she woke, she was hungry. We had dinner together, then watched a few recorded episodes of GP: Behind Closed Doors. Before bed, I checked her BP again—still high, but she was feeling better.
After she went upstairs to bed early, I sat alone with the remote and Mr Vicious stretched across my lap or curled on the back of the sofa. The TV was on, but my thoughts wandered. I kept circling around one awful truth:
My Darling is exhausted—because of me.
The stress she’s under is immense. She was already worrying about me before the chemo even started. But then, just ten days in, I end up in hospital with clots in my lungs. Of course she’s tired. Of course it’s taken its toll.
At work today, her colleagues gave her good advice: start a blood pressure diary, record it twice daily, and after a week, see her GP. Thankfully, today her BP was back to normal and looks to me much stronger. That brings some comfort—but not enough.
Because as I sat downstairs last night, I couldn’t stop the emotions. Guilt. Sadness. Frustration.
Two and a half years of this illness—that we still barely name out loud—has reshaped our world. Cancer. The quiet killer. It has erased any trace of the retirement plans we never got to make. Now we talk not of holidays or dreams, but of medications, fatigue, and hospital appointments.
I loved work. But I’m not at work now.
And I won’t be—not while my days revolve around managing symptoms, waiting on test results, and holding onto whatever energy I can find.
The hardest part? These changes aren’t optional. They’ve been forced on us. And as hard as that is for me to bear, it’s even harder knowing what it’s doing to her.
Time is precious. But nothing is more valuable than My Darling’s health.
I try to push away the fear, the anger, the worry—but they never stay gone for long.
Last year I had counselling, and it helped enormously. But even after three hours of recent conversations with a hospice doctor about talking therapies, I know My Darling isn’t ready yet.
She might benefit. But she’s not there yet.
And that’s okay.
We all need help. I wouldn’t be here without a lot of it—some offered, some requested.
What I’ve learned is this:
I’m not invincible.
I need my family more than ever.
I need My Darling more than ever.
This isn’t fair. None of us signed up for this.
Cancer chips away at everything you once believed about yourself. It takes what made you feel like a man—and leaves you wondering who you are. Sometimes, it feels like menopause with fewer resources and less understanding. Hormones. Exhaustion. Mood swings. And invisibility.
But today, it’s not about me.
It’s about My Darling. And the toll this journey is taking on her.
I wish I could rewrite it all—choose another path, another outcome, another life.
But this is what we have.
And today, I’m bitter. I feel selfish.
But I’m allowed.
It’s a free country.
And still—I know…
It could be worse.
I’ll be the carer.
I’ll be the ‘man’.
I’ll be more positive…
When My Darling gets home.
PS
We made it! A gentle 15-minute stroll around the block — and everything went to plan. My heart was racing, but no pain, no breathlessness, just steady steps forward. Best of all, My Darling was back to her wonderful self, walking right by my side and keeping a loving eye on me with every step. I’d say that’s not just a good end to the day — that’s a great one.
