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I would think most doctors would have compassion and understanding for your situation...They deal with patients who are in your situation every week. If he or she in in her 40s or 50s, has quite likely lost someone,(though not a spouse) as well. My PCP was only five when her own father died. YMMV, but in our state, one could only be committed involuntarily for 72 hours. There are in most places very strict rules about involuntary commitment, for good reasons. Your doctor, from your posts, is...less than spectacular. But the doctor she refers you to may be great. Suicidal feelings are awful. I'd been around that track, myself, before my husband's illness. Therapy and drugs gave me my life back. I wish you peace.

The grass had grown long enough that I decided today would be the day is would be cut, one way or another. The ancient riding lawn mower would not start. (May never again) I had asked my female friends what type of mowers they owned, and bought one at the big box store in our area. Got it home, assembled it, noted it had a Briggs and Stratton engine, late Husband liked those. Added oil, filled the gas tank, and mowed till I ran out of gas. This was huge for me. Late husband loved mowing. I'd have had to fight him to do it - so I had done it maybe twice in twenty-five years, and always with his help and supervision. Now I understand my late husband's frustration with my landscaping, plant placement, artistic ideas of how the yard should look. Navigating the self-propelled mower around my plants was dicey, I don't know how he managed with the much more cumbersome riding mower.

Well, my husband died on our porch. I'm not prepared to move, so... here I am. At the first house we owned, we were told by neighbors that the man of the house died at home in the bathtub. His widow was living there for years after his death. (We didn't ask her if that was true, of course) Wish I had something profound to tell you.

I am sorry for your loss. My husband was an alcoholic, too. We stayed married. I don't know even now if that was a good idea or a bad one. My husband had been diagnosed with lung cancer. It was going to be a long, painful death, I suspect, but fate intervened, or something did, and he died very suddenly five weeks after his diagnosis. He didn't die from cancer, but from circumstances surrounding it. Over the years, I had considered leaving him. I understand very well the situation of being married to an alcoholic. You were married for some time, I guess? He was the father of your sons. I would hope you have the humanity to grieve for someone who held that prominent position in your life! I would consider that compassion, not disloyalty. As for your sons keeping you out of the funeral arrangements, I suppose that makes sense, as you've moved on and remarried. They would be considered the next of kin. I'm sorry that they're doing that and that is hurtful to you. I am sad, so sad that my husband died, but in a way, I find a tiny bit of comfort (or maybe I choose to believe) that whatever awful thoughts and feelings drove him to drink are gone and he is at peace now.

I felt the same way at times. I had read of a woman who had a "spiral CT" scan and caught her cancer early enough to have it surgically removed. When I spoke to DH's PG, though, he told me a scan like that is the equivalent of 300 x-rays: It is just not something one can safely do every year, which one would have to do to catch the cancer early. It makes for good TV and ratings, though, to announce things like that. For people who have recently lost someone, it's like salt in a wound.

Oh, Jeff's birthday is coming up in June, and our anniversary is 16 days later. I don't know how you feel, now, but I will then. I hope the days ahead will be better. I had been doing rather well, but the second half of this week has been tough, for reasons unknown to me. Just thinking about him a lot. Also, three other acquaintances have died since Jeff was diagnosed. It's a little unnerving to see so many fall in such a short period, especially people in their 40s and 50s.

I'm experiencing the same thing. I've been great for the last couple weeks. Started a new job. (I now have three part-time jobs) About 36 hours ago, I started the meltdown. I've kept it in check in public, or maybe I was distracted enough to keep the feelings at bay. Last night I installed anew faucet on the kitchen sink. I've never done that before, and I think that's what put me over the edge. Now, everything falls to me. I can hire help, but it really ought to, owing to my monetary situation, be things I don't have a snowball's chance of doing myself.

I received a letter from the New England Organ Bank today. Jeff's corneas were donated and transplanted to two individuals to help restore their sight.

In speaking with other family members of cancer patients, most of them realize or have in the back of their minds the thought that cancer will take their loved one, eventually. (For all the groups agitating for this disease or that, cancer will be the cause of death for one in four Americans) One of my recent customers told me she was taking a trip, her first vacation in a couple years. She had been caring for her mother who had been a cancer patient. She seemed upbeat about her mother at the beginning of our conversation, as her mother was through with treatment. She did allude to the fact that although the cancer in her mother's throat had been treated, it was only a matter of time before the cancer turned up some place else. I guess I've quickly grown philosophical about what the future would have held for me and Jeff: many chemo treatments (his illness too advanced for any surgery) and the awful side effects. A slow, painful death. Jeff's GP and oncologist were surprised, too, at his death five weeks from diagnosis. The oncologist explained what likely happened when I described what occurred, and I felt no need to investigate further. As this day draws to a close,I see I've gotten through all right. I did miss him today, though. Jeff's birthday is in June. Our twenty-fifth anniversary would have been 16 days later. I'll be going up to the state park where we honeymooned to scatter his ashes.

We didn't have three years. People often speak of the "gift" of time cancer provides to say good-bye; not so in our case. If I had a book to write, unfortunately, it would be a re-hash of all the good advice one hears from others, but people think it doesn't apply to themselves - to live each day to the fullest, to let go of grudges, to accept people as they are, and not try to change them, or if they are toxic, to limit the impact toxic people have on your life. Sadly Suzanne, my husband was an alcoholic. I'm missing him a lot this morning, but my loss is tempered (for better or worse, one might say)by the knowledge that whatever made him so desperately unhappy is ended now. I miss his sense of humor, and how he understood me in a way many people didn't. He loved me as best as he could. Unfortunately for me, I didn't feel very loved. If I had a book to write, it would tell people to either extricate themselves from a situation like that, or to find comfort in the fact that this person, a frail, flawed mortal, loves you as best he can.

My husband was an alcoholic. He was very intelligent, but the alcoholism had taken hold, he had been unemployed for a year, had lost three jobs in six years, and was unhappy in general. It was not a surprise that he had developed lung cancer; two packs a day for 38 years will do that. He died very suddenly 5 weeks after his diagnosis, though, and that was a shock. And we were renovating a house. But I had posted on another forum about his cancer, and someone had written, maybe if someone is suffering, (from cancer or depression) the end is something of a relief. I have spoken with quite a few people who have been in similar situations who were of the opinion that chemo and radiation extended their loved one's lives, but didn't add to the quality of life. So although I still have my moments, I guess one could say that my grief is tempered by the understanding and knowledge that my DH was suffering, and had been suffering, long before the day we heard the diagnosis.

I had a colleague who used to say her brothers made it back from the war in southeast Asia because her mother prayed for them. This actually made no sense to me as I figured that probably all the soldiers there had someone praying for them, and didn't make it back anyway. Way way back in my life I remember someone saying the four most difficult words in the Lord's Prayer were, "Thy will be done." I suspect that's true. Back further than that, in Sunday School, (I honestly don't remember why this has stuck with me for 40 + years) I recall the teacher telling us that God answers all prayers. The prayer isn't always answered with a yes, though. Sometimes the answer is no, and sometimes the answer is "wait." She was clear that God never says "maybe."

I am sorry for your loss. My husband died suddenly, I guess not unexpectedly, from lung cancer. He smoked two packs a day for 38 years, so the diagnosis was not a surprise. The fact that he died 38 days after his diagnosis didn't give us much time to adjust. The day after Jeff's funeral was the worst. I saw things around the house that he had always taken care of and felt overwhelmed - the latch on the screen door was not latching, what if the cats got out? (One did, he came back a few minutes later) Looking at it more closely, it was a matter of tightening a screw. How do we get things fixed? The man who my husband hired to finish his work on the house when he realized how sick he was has offered to do a lot of the work for the cost of materials only. How in the world do things get maintained? Well, Jeff was clever, but he didn't do everything - there were and are still times when it's necessary to call in a pro. While it took a pro to fix the furnace, I realized today that the thermostat was kaput, too. And that the repairman had left a wire connected that he shouldn't have. Two trips to the hardware store, throwing myself on the mercy of the staff there, as well as a knowledgeable customer, and five hours later, I myself had installed a new thermostat and programmed it. I am not unusually smart or resourceful, just tenacious. I miss Jeff every day. But the more I speak with others about lung cancer, the more I come to understand or feel that passing quickly was a mixed blessing. I didn't have the time to prepare, Jeff didn't have the time to do the things he might have, the "journey" as so many refer to the cancer treatment, was for us a short one. But so many others who have experienced it said the quality of life was not very good when that life was extended by treatment. I have found many people compassionate and willing to help, if only I ask. I hope you do, too. And I can only imagine the loss, as Jeff and I were together only 25 years, not the lifetime you experienced. But your life has continued. Jeff was going to fight to live. One of the other posters on this board noted that her son would have fought to live, too. She considers her forging ahead a tribute to her son. I have come to consider my continuing on the same way. I pray for you and wish you peace and blessings.

Oh, yeah, I can't, and don't want to keep all of it. On another forum, in another topic, a poster wondered how to keep from hoarding everything she found appealing. One suggestion intrigued me: someone suggested getting a box and labeling it "Pieces of Me." She suggested that if one was thoughtful, one could limit the collection to fit into the box. As time went on, some things would become less important or laden with emotion, and one would naturally make room for newer, more currently evocative things. Korina, unfortunately, Jeff was an active alcoholic all of our married lives. But he did resent the move, (he lied and said he was glad we moved, often, but I suspect he did so to try to convince himself.) A lovely man is helping with the house, now. He'll need to re-do many of the things Jeff started. He thinks, I suspect, that Jeff was always this careless about his work. I wish he'd known Jeff before the alcohol took him so far away. I did find a way to get some of Jeff's treasured things out of the house. kind of. He had a shirt from his dart team days: he hadn't been of a size to wear it, for many years. And a hat, bedraggled and worn, that came back from Southeast Asia with him in '70. They got cremated with him. So I guess sometimes, you can take it with you...

My mom made a mini rag quilt from my husband's jeans and shirts. There were very few things left that were in decent shape - he was unemployed the last year of his life, and puttered around the house a lot. Today I went through the pantry and pulled out the things my husband liked - and I hated! I'll never have to eat or smell tuna fish again! Or that dreadful casserole (no joke - chicken and rice soup and tuna)that his mother used to make that he loved...but It was sad in a way. A relative came by and could make use of the groceries, so they didn't make it to the donation center, either. Jeff was a pack rat - he scolded me a few months ago about throwing away three pairs of leather shoes. I had to tell him that he hadn't worn them in so long, they had grown moldy beyond any recovery. His last job was at a home for troubled children and adolescents. I don't know why, but whenever clothing was to be thrown out, Jeff brought home everything that might fit him, and never threw anything away, even if he never wore it. Much of the clothing I pitched right away but there are still about a dozen pairs of - shoes -. He owned exactly two good shirts. He bought them a couple months ago for job hunting. One was never taken out of the package. There is a blue blazer, worn less than a dozen times. Two pair of good looking khakis, same situation as the shirts. Two good overcoats, I think he wore one of them, once, for my Dad's funeral. Jeff's ashes are in the brass container under my bed. his wedding ring and dog tags from the service on a chain on the bedpost. In the closet is an insulated denim jacket that was his favorite. I re-attached the pockets and buttons many times over the years. In November I went back to work for a former employer. The first year I worked for him, Jeff and I had been married a little over a year, had our first house, and on St Patrick's day, Boss had a sale: each item on the sale rack was 3, 17, or 87 dollars. I think Jeff bought that jacket for 17 dollars, so now it's 23 years old. Good buy. If I'm feeling nostalgic someday, maybe I'll tell Boss about it. He never threw out his old sleeping bag, even though we bought a pair that could zip together. I'm going to one of his favorite places to scatter some of his ashes later this year. I plan to use his sleeping bag, but I don't know what to do with it, later. He collected lots of things, so there are: dozens of tins, not especially attractive. Marbles, many, none exceptionally rare. Newspapers of important events during our lifetime, but not in good condition. Matchbooks. Tons of diskettes with pictures of the work he did around our houses. Many are of the barn he built at house #1. I suspect his final decline into alcoholism was caused by my insistence that we move closer to the city after he'd finished the barn he was (justifiably) proud of.

So, husband died almost a month ago. I have no idea if i can afford to heat this house and manage the upkeep. Thankfully there is no mortgage. We bought it with the intention of fixing it up. When Husband was diagnosed, he hired a man to help with the things Husband didn't think he'd be able to do. He started. When Husband died, Man made an incredible offer. He would continue working on the house a few hours, here and there, (like when he was rained out of paying work) and all I would need to do is pay for materials. His wife is something of a decorator, too, and is helping with that. What could be the problem? Well, for one thing, Husband was an active alcoholic. Many of the things he did do have to be re-done because they were done so poorly, and for some reason, I'm embarrassed by that. Second, many of the things I'd had in mind were sort of "artsy" and different. Those things are not going to be done because the goal is now to put the house in "salable" condition. So some of the things I wanted aren't going to happen. I should be grateful. I hope I act grateful. Tonight, I don't feel grateful.

No one can force another to give up a drug. One can lay out options and consequences...but the decision has to be the addict's own. My husband smoked two packs a day for 38 years, and drank heavily most of that time, too. I encouraged him to get help for both. He refused. He was diagnosed with lung cancer Feb 4th. I wonder now, if he was so unhappy, that he just didn't care if he lived any longer. I feel guilty for some of that, but...in the end, I couldn't *make* him be happy. And it wasn't my responsibility to create a fulfilling life for him: Nor he for me. Just before he was diagnosed, I was feeling bitter that I had very little social life, and blaming him. He didn't want to do anything but stay home and drink. He never begrudged me any activity, though. The decision to go home and scowl at him for being drunk was mine. The decision to do nothing about his general unhappiness that prompted the drinking, smoking, was his.

My husband had been given a prognosis of two years to live. He died very suddenly five weeks later. I had been hoping to have a few more good experiences with him. I didn't get to say good bye, either. So sorry for your loss. edited because I can spell, really.