I vividly recall the morning my young husband was moved to a hospice facility. After the bus took the kids to school, I stepped into our house, feeling my hands tremble and my heart race. My mind was clouded with chaos, and I felt utterly exhausted in every sense. I just needed ten minutes. Ten minutes to confront my fear, sadness, and fatigue—ten minutes to allow myself to break down, knowing that I wouldn’t have the opportunity to do so again. My husband and children would rely on me to be their strong anchor in the impending storm.
I laid down in a warm patch of sunlight on the playroom floor, letting the reality of “hospice” wash over me. After twenty months of battling a relentless illness, I finally paused from my autopilot existence and let the tears flow. I took those ten minutes to reflect on that haunting spinal MRI, a memory that still lingers in the twilight between dreams and reality. I took ten minutes to let myself unravel.
Ten minutes was all I thought I needed. Ten minutes that I would later wish I could reclaim.
When I finally gathered myself, I checked the time. My husband’s transfer was scheduled for 10 a.m., and I realized that if I didn’t leave immediately, I might miss him on the road, risking the chance of not being there for his first moments in hospice. For the past twenty months, I had been his caretaker amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces in the medical field. I didn’t want to let him down now.
So, I made a choice. Instead of rushing to the hospital, I decided to prepare his room at the hospice. I packed pillows, blankets, picture frames, and stuffed animals to create a space filled with love and warmth.
I should have known better than to expect the hospital to adhere to a strict schedule. After all, I had learned that plans often fell through during my husband’s treatment. Yet, I clung to the hope that this time would be different, that 10 a.m. would truly mean 10 a.m. because the hospital was overwhelmed with patients.
I waited. Hours passed as I stood frozen, torn between the urge to be with him and the fear of missing his arrival. For the umpteenth time since his diagnosis, I wished I could be in two places at once.
When he finally arrived, he was either asleep, sedated, or in a coma—I couldn’t tell. He didn’t awaken during the transfer to his bed. He didn’t see the drawings the kids had made for him or feel the love I had tried to fill the room with. As evening turned to night and night to morning, friends, family, and I kept a vigil in the space I had created, hoping he could sense our presence, even if he was unresponsive. Those ten minutes I had taken for myself now felt like a lifetime of regret.
For a long time, I have struggled to forgive myself for those ten minutes. I tried to convince myself that I couldn’t have known that morning would be his last conscious hours. Just a week prior, he had successfully undergone brain surgery, and the doctors had told me he had weeks, not days, left to live. The night before, he had enjoyed a meal and engaged with us more than he had in months. While I have mostly forgiven myself, I will always wish I had made a different choice—stayed with him instead of stepping away. Yet, I also recognize that my decision allowed me to gather the strength to create a comforting atmosphere for him and our children, providing support in a time of unimaginable grief.
Regret can be a dangerous emotion, capable of spreading negativity throughout one’s life if left unchecked. But it doesn’t define my journey. Regret is just one small part of a much larger story filled with love, resilience, and hope.
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Summary:
This piece reflects on the author’s regret over taking ten minutes for herself during a critical time when her husband was transferred to hospice care. Despite feeling the need to recharge, she later wished she had chosen to be with him instead. The narrative explores themes of love, resilience, and the complexities of caregiving, emphasizing that while regret exists, it does not define the entirety of her story.