Four weeks later

My nightstand received an unwelcome transformation. Books with titles like Not Now, Cancer. I’m Busy. and When Blood Breaks Down were replaced with a new collection of books — On Grief & Grieving, The Modern Loss Handbook, and Broken Open.

These are not the books I imagined my almost 50-year-old self reading.

It’s not a stretch to call me an optimist. “A glass half full kind of gal”… that’s how I often describe myself. Why choose negativity when you can choose positivity? Why choose despair when you can choose hope? I even used to (half joking) tell Danny, “You need to be more like your blood type. B+!” That one always elicited an eye roll from Danny.

During our battle with cancer, the intrinsic optimist in me frequently visualized the happy ending we would most certainly have. In the same way an athlete visualizes success, winning, and the proverbial “crossing the finish line”, I envisioned Danny ringing that bell and returning to a “normal” that would somehow be even better than the normal we previously knew.

I even fantasized about the story I would one day tell to the world so people would know how we fought cancer… and won. The story would have a classic Disney/Pixar narrative arc; the timeless hero’s journey.

In The Lion King, Simba defeats Scar and claims his rightful place as king. In Finding Nemo, Marlin finds Nemo and they return to their happy home. In Frozen, Anna climbs the mountain and saves her sister Elsa. Harry Potter defeats the all-powerful Voldemort. (Guess I should’ve provided spoiler alert warnings. Oops.) All these stories, and many more just like them, teach us that bravery, love, selflessness, and hope are the conduits to “And they lived happily ever after.”

I’d be lying if I said that I never felt fear or despair while Danny and I waged war against leukemia. That is also part of the Disney story formula; the protagonist (and oftentimes, their sidekick) must face the big, scary thing that is seemingly insurmountable. It was often difficult for me to accept that fear and hope could coexist until I read something that Pema Chödrön, an American Buddhist nun, wrote:

The word in Tibetan for hope is rewa; the word for fear is dokpa. More commonly, the word re-dok is used, which combines the two. Hope and fear is a feeling with two sides. As long as there’s one, there’s always the other.

Despite the fear and despair that often crept into my mind during our year-long battle, I clung to hope like a toddler clinging to their favorite stuffed animal. Hope gave me comfort and strength to face the unknowns of each day and every bit of unwanted news from the doctors. Hope was just as vital to me as oxygen.

I was in no way prepared for June 16, 2023. Danny was gone and so was the hope, comfort, and strength. Sometimes, it even feels like all the oxygen is gone too.

Four weeks later, there are three questions that I am most frequently asked by caring, concerned friends and family.

First, “How are you doing?” That is an extremely complicated answer. In fact, I’m not really ready to provide an answer, because I am still in the thick of processing things. What I will say is that I am intensely aware of and grateful for the love and support that I continue to receive from friends, family, and even strangers. Also, I try hard to trust in the human ability to heal, while also recognizing that it takes time (as many have reminded me). As Ernest Hemingway said, “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.”

Second, “Will there be a service for Danny?” I have decided to not plan a funeral or memorial service, because Danny would hate everything about that. We talked about these things, “just in case”. I do plan to host a celebration of life in the not too distant future. Danny would want us to all gather to eat tacos & queso, laugh together, and listen to a lot of good music (preferably live music). More details on Danny’s celebration of life will be shared via this website.

Third, “What can I do for you?” Everyone’s desire to help me is nothing short of humbling. The kindness I have experienced since Danny’s transition is an antidote to my colossal grief. Letters, text messages, emails, personal visits, flowers, prayers… bottomless compassion. Thank you to all of you. Every act of kindness, big or small, has a profound impact on me.

I am hesitant to share this final answer to the frequently asked questions “What can I do for you?” or “How can I help?” However, a group of extraordinary friends, who have self-appointed themselves “Jen’s Support Squad”, very graciously set up a GoFundMe campaign to help cover my expenses. Danny, unfortunately did not have life insurance, and I do not qualify for social security death benefits. Asking loved ones for money feels intensely awkward for me, but my support squad assures me that it’s “normal” during situations like this. With that, I humbly share the link to the GoFundMe campaign: https://www.gofundme.com/f/jennifer-watson.

My goal is to keep this blog going, at least for a while, as a tribute to Danny. In the same way that it provided me with an outlet and feeling of connection during Danny’s illness, I hope it will serve the same purpose during our collective grieving process.

I cannot say this enough… Thank you for your continued support, love, encouragement, and prayers.