Cancer Diary: When the Treadmill Stops - Feeling Bad about Good Things
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I never imagined that the end of such relentless days could feel like both a surrender and a liberation. For months, my world had been a blur of urgent calls, sleepless nights, and a relentless schedule—caring for adult disabled children living at home and independently but in need of support, running a business, and tending to Carl’s ever-growing needs as he battled cancer of unknown primary (CUP). Each day was a race against time: rushing to change his diapers, lifting him from his chair to the bed in the hoyer, and dashing to the pharmacy at a minute’s notice when a new symptom flared up. The demands were ceaseless, and the emotional toll was immeasurable.
When Carl finally passed, I expected to grieve. Instead, I found myself caught in an unexpected and painful paradox: relief. There was an undeniable sense of release, a pause to the endless treadmill of caregiving that had consumed every waking moment of my life and more often than not, half of my night, with sleep deprivation piling up inexorably. Alongside that relief, an overwhelming guilt began to seep in.
It’s hard to explain to those who haven’t walked this path. How can I feel relieved when the love of my life is gone? How can I be grateful for the absence of the constant rush when it feels like I’m betraying his memory? The truth is, Carl’s passing ended not just his suffering, but also the relentless pressure on me. I was no longer forced to choose between my own sanity and his care. But that freedom came with a heavy price: guilt.
In the quiet that followed his death, I was haunted by the echoes of what used to be. Every moment that I now spent in peace was a stark reminder of the past—the nights of being called out of bed every couple of hours, the emotional numbing that came from having no time to just be with him, the constant feeling of being pulled in a thousand directions. I felt guilty for feeling relief. I felt like I was somehow abandoning him in my heart, as if my sense of freedom diminished the love we shared.
I remember one particularly silent afternoon, sitting alone with a cup of tea, and the paradox hit me like a wave. I felt free, unburdened by the ceaseless responsibilities, yet every pang of relief was immediately followed by a stab of guilt. It wasn’t that I loved Carl any less; it was simply that the unrelenting physical and emotional demands had left me so depleted that even the thought of resting felt like a betrayal.
The journey through these conflicting emotions has been confusing and isolating. I found myself questioning the nature of love and duty, and whether it was selfish to seek respite after a lifetime of sacrifice. But over time, I have begun to understand that feeling relief doesn’t negate the love I had for Carl. It’s a natural human response to extreme stress—a survival mechanism that allowed me to cope and eventually heal.
I’ve learned that in the aftermath of such intense caregiving, relief is not an act of abandonment but a necessary step towards recovery. The guilt, though ever-present, is part of the process—a signal of the deep care and commitment that once drove every action. It’s a reminder that my journey wasn’t solely about sacrifice; it was also about finding the strength to care for myself in the midst of overwhelming duty.
In sharing my experience, I hope to shed light on a topic that is rarely discussed. There’s a stigma around feeling relief after the loss of a loved one, a stigma that creates an overwhelming sense of guilt. I want others who have navigated similar paths to know that these feelings are valid. They are a testament to the complexity of caregiving, of love, and of the human condition itself.
Carl’s battle was a crucible that reshaped my life in ways I’m still trying to comprehend. While his suffering and the unending demands of care have passed, the emotional landscape I now inhabit is filled with both bittersweet memories and the cautious promise of renewal. The relief I feel is not a dismissal of his memory, but rather an acknowledgment that I, too, deserve the chance to heal and live again. While I can acknowledge this, I cannot always accept it, at least not with equanimity.
As I continue this journey, I’m learning to balance the memory of Carl with the newfound space in my life—a space where I can begin to rediscover who I am beyond the role of caregiver. And though the guilt may never fully disappear, it serves as a quiet reminder of the love that once defined our every day.
If you find yourself in a similar place, overwhelmed by mixed emotions after the end of a long, exhausting caregiving journey, know that it’s okay to feel relief. It’s okay to embrace moments of peace, even if they come with a side of guilt. In time, I believe that both emotions can coexist—a tribute to the complexity of love, loss, and the strength it takes to keep moving forward.
For other Cancer Diary posts, click HERE.
Blog editor's note: As a memorial to Carl, and simply because it is truly needed, MSI Press is now hosting a web page, Carl's Cancer Compendium, as a one-stop starting point for all things cancer, to make it easier for those with cancer to find answers to questions that can otherwise take hours to track down on the Internet and/or from professionals. The CCC is expanded and updated weekly. As part of this effort, each week, on Monday, this blog will carry an informative, cancer-related story -- and be open to guest posts: Cancer Diary.
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