November is one of my favorite months — what with autumn color skittering across the sidewalks, and chillier temps that beg for scarves and mittens and boots, and the promise of upcoming family holidays.
It’s also the month my husband, Gary, died.
Photo by Bonnie Kittle on Unsplash
“Mom, people want to help,” admonished our daughter, Summer, visiting from New Jersey. “And they want to do it in meaningful ways.”
Photo by John-Mark Kuznietsov on Unsplash
For some people, the unknown carries anticipation. A job transition, for example, that could mean new opportunity, new friends, a new community, the excitement of pushing away from the dock and pursuing far-reaching, blustery adventures.
For others, the unknown causes anxiety. Leaving the safety of the familiar shore, being swept out into uncharted waters.
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My husband, Gary, and I were back in Hospice House after breaking out for two weeks. Love found us there, because there is no hiding from love.
Visitors, food, chai tea in cheery red cups, gift baskets. And these groovy mismatched socks with the manufacturer’s tag that read, “Life’s too short to wear matching socks.”
I don’t remember a date that lasted from 9:00am to 7:00pm — even back when cancer motivated my husband and me to establish a standing Friday date, back before cancer took him.
But today was that day, beginning with a couple hours of writing at Suttle Tea Café in Sisters, Oregon, over Pumpkin Pie Chai, handcrafted with real pumpkin — so good — followed by a hike around Suttle Lake.
Suttle Lake, Oregon
When my husband, Gary, was diagnosed with cancer, we asked the professionals about diet and exercise. One doctor said, “That’s like closing the barn door after the horse has gotten out.” Well, thank you. That was helpful.
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On our own initiative, we increased our fruit and veggie intake, eliminated unhealthful fats and sugars, and ate more whole grains and legumes. And then Gary died. And I quit cooking for myself.
Four years ago as cancer was picking up speed, there was so much kindness and amazingness surrounding my husband, Gary, and me.
With each generous gift, with each acceptance of help when it was offered—apparently something I wasn’t good at doing until Daughter Summer pointed it out and started lecturing—God was reminding me I couldn’t carry this load alone; I needed this fiercely supportive team of friends, family, co-workers, cancer community members.
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If we’ve lost something of incredible value — our health, a way of life, someone who is precious beyond words — then it’s important to grieve. To take our time and grieve in our own way.
At some point, though, it will be to our advantage and good health to set aside our sorrow and take a stab at living again. And while we’re learning to live again, see if we don’t become more attractive in the process.
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Copyright © 2025 Marlys Johnson
