My name is Dana. I was a caregiver for my husband, Tommy, after he was diagnosed with lung cancer. We were married for over 40 years, and I would have done anything—anything—not to lose him.
Tommy, a U.S. Marine, was the healthiest person I knew. His cousins used to call him “Mr. Vitamin Man” because he never got sick. We were in Florida, enjoying our snowbird months, when he came down with what seemed like a cold. He insisted he could “sweat it out,” but after a few days, he agreed to go to the emergency room.
That’s when everything changed. A doctor walked in—no introduction, no kindness—and announced from the doorway: “You have lung cancer.” Just like that. I was stunned. Bewildered. My brain couldn’t even process who he was talking to.
Tommy and I were very close. That night, we went out to dinner and I cried the whole time. He just kept saying, “What are you crying about? Everything’s going to be okay.” But I didn’t want to live without him. And I didn’t know how I was going to do this.
We drove back to Rhode Island, where I’d already made appointments with a GP and an oncologist. That’s when caregiving really began. I started researching everything—tests, doctors, treatments. I wasn’t a medical expert, just a wife trying to save her husband.
Tommy was eventually diagnosed with a rare gene mutation—ALK—that made him eligible for an experimental treatment. His initial prognosis was one year. He lived almost six. We went to Boston twice a week for treatments. First by car, then bus, then train. The train was best. His cousin Johnny would drive us to the station and pick us up. That little bit of help made a huge difference.
Tommy never lost his strength or grace. “Face forward and deal with it,” he told me. That was his mantra. And it became mine. I cried in private, but in front of him, I stayed upbeat. I focused on today, not tomorrow. “Today is a good day,” he’d say. So I made sure we lived it well.
The hospital staff in Rhode Island became like family. His oncologist, Ari, was an angel. So was his nurse, Cindy. Everyone treated Tommy with warmth and humor, even knowing he was terminal. That made all the difference.
We even kept traveling—Canada, Florida, cruises. We didn’t stop living. I didn’t keep a diary, but I tried to make every day a memory worth holding onto. Even when I was tired, I didn’t want to miss a moment. And when Tommy asked one day, “You’re tired, aren’t you?” I said no. But he knew. And now I think he was the one who was tired, too.
He passed away three months later.
After his death, I felt like I lost both a person and a job. The silence was enormous. Some friends showed up. Some didn’t. I felt isolated. But eventually, I found new rhythms—volunteering, reconnecting with my own life. I still talk to him every day. He’s been gone 12 years, and I still ask, “What would Tommy say?”
He taught me how to live well—even in dying. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.
