A kindly palliative care physician stopped by my husband’s hospital room to help him complete a Physicians Orders for Life-Sustaining Treatment (POLST) form. “What most concerns you?” he asked my husband.
Gary pointed at me and said, “Leaving her.”
Photo by Harli Marten on Unsplash
We were at my husband’s final oncology consultation—the one where he said, No more chemo—at which point the oncologist said he’d like to make a referral to hospice. I was incredulous. Seriously? Does Gary look like he’s on his last legs?!
“Up until this point,” the oncologist said to my husband, “all the care has been focused on you.” He pointed at me: “But who’s taking care of her?” My eyes welled up. I’d never considered that thought.
Photo by Conner Baker on Unsplash
You’ll find me with my knitting posse most Monday evenings at Barnes & Noble. Back when my husband, Gary, was fighting cancer, they were part of my cancer caregiver support network. And now in widowhood, they’ve got my back.
My fellow knitters didn’t sign up for either of these extra assignments. But by virtue of showing up every Monday and bringing their exquisite, fuzzy projects and sharing their stories and asking about my week, they’re a significant addition to my support system.
Someone handed a baby turtle in a small container to me. “Give him a name,” she said. And of course what popped into my head was ‘Gary.’ As in, my deceased husband.
Photo: Campamento Tortugueros Sayulita
Back when my husband, Gary, was living well with late-stage prostate cancer, we joined a cancer-kicking hike/ snowshoe group. As a result, I have movies in living color of so many burbling, adventurous, life-affirming treks in the Cascades near our home in central Oregon.
After Gary died, the strangest thing happened: All the teams, posses, crews of people who supported us through ten years of cancer and caregiving suddenly morphed into widow support groups.
Earlier this week, I joined up with two of my cancer-kicking (widow support) friends, Mike and Bina, and snow-shoed from Mt. Bachelor out to Todd Lake. A cold and gray-shrouded trek.
Looking out across a frozen Todd Lake (Photo: Mike Gibson)
My young friend, Charity, is a world-changer. But she doesn’t know it.
Charity is facing the one-year anniversary of the day her husband and young son were swept out to sea by a sneaker wave on the Oregon coast. January 15. But wait until you hear what she’s accomplished, despite dealing with the most horrific experience of her life.
My world-changing friend, Charity
Three years ago—back when I was newly widowed, resigning my job, and paring down to move out of state—a bracelet arrived in the mail from one of my beautiful sisters-in-law. The charm dangling from it read: “Embrace the journey.”
Photo by Fineas Anton on Unsplash
Daughter Summer married her college sweetheart in the month of December. Twenty-two years and six children later, Josh and Summer are still sweethearts. And the only way they can get away for a few days together is when a grandparent is present.
This is where I come in.
Photo by freestocks.org on Unsplash
This is my favorite time of year. Nearby mountains cloaked in winter white, gaggles of geese discussing where to winter, family and friends gathering and giving thanks and eating way too much pie and lighting menorah candles and decking the halls and welcoming in a New Year.
Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash
Copyright © 2025 Marlys Johnson
