I vividly recall the day my young husband was moved to a hospice facility. After sending the kids off to school, I stepped into our home, feeling my hands shake and my heart race. My mind was clouded with turmoil, and I was utterly exhausted—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
All I needed was ten minutes. Just ten minutes to acknowledge my fear, my sadness, and my fatigue. Ten minutes to allow myself to break down—knowing I wouldn’t have another chance to do so. My husband and children would rely on me to be their anchor amidst the impending darkness.
I found a small patch of sunlight on the playroom carpet and laid down, letting the reality of “hospice” wash over me. After twenty months of battling a relentless disease, I finally paused. Tears streamed into my hair as I reflected on that final, haunting spinal MRI—images that still invade my dreams. I took those ten minutes to let myself be vulnerable.
But those ten minutes turned into a regret I would carry for a lifetime. When I finally gathered myself, I realized my husband’s transfer to hospice was scheduled for 10 a.m. I had to leave immediately or risk missing him, potentially passing each other on the highway. I couldn’t bear the thought of not being there for his first moments in hospice, especially after being his steadfast caregiver through so many challenges.
So I chose to do something different. Instead of rushing to the hospital, I packed pillows, blankets, pictures, and stuffed animals, determined to make his new room feel like home, filled with love.
Somewhere deep down, I should have known that “10 a.m.” in hospital terms often meant delays. After all, I’d learned that lesson countless times during our journey. Yet, I held onto the hope that this time would be different, that time would actually adhere to the schedule.
I waited for hours, paralyzed by indecision—wanting to be with him but terrified of leaving and missing him. I often wished to be in two places at once, feeling helpless and alone.
When he finally arrived, it was much later than I had anticipated. He was either asleep, sedated, or in a coma—I still can’t say for sure. He missed seeing the kids’ drawings adorning the walls, the bits of home I had arranged with love. As the day turned into night, and then morning, I sat vigil with our children and friends in that room, hoping it would feel like a warm embrace. Yet I had chosen to take those ten minutes for myself, the very minutes that could have been spent by his side.
Those ten minutes were a time when he needed me to be strong, and I wasn’t there for him. I’ve spent a long time trying to forgive myself for that choice. I reasoned that I couldn’t have known his last morning at the hospital would be the last time he was awake; just a week earlier, he had undergone successful brain surgery. The day before, doctors had assured me he had weeks to live, and he had even enjoyed a meal and engaged with us.
Though I’ve found some level of forgiveness, I will likely always wish I had made a different decision—one that prioritized my presence over my need for a moment to myself. Yet, I am also grateful that my choice allowed me to gather the strength to create a space filled with love for my children and my husband. I was able to be the first voice he heard in hospice, even if he wasn’t conscious of it, and provide the steady support our kids so desperately needed during that upheaval.
Regret can be a destructive force, capable of tainting one’s entire life. However, it does not define my narrative. While regret exists in my story, it is merely a small chapter in a much larger tale filled with love, resilience, and hope.
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Summary:
This reflection highlights the profound regret that can come from taking a moment for oneself during a time of crisis. The author grapples with the decision to prioritize personal breakdown over being present for her husband in his final moments, revealing both the complexity of emotions involved in caregiving and the importance of self-forgiveness.