But 21/2 years later, when it was clear that science had nothing more to offer my husband, I discovered I was unprepared for what had been completely predictable - his death. I knew it would be an emotional ordeal, but the mechanics of it took me by surprise. Even after years of medical reporting, I didn't understand how people with cancer die or how physically and emotionally demanding it is to take care of them at the end. So I, like millions before me, would learn the hard way during the worst month of my life. We put a lot of effort into helping people live with cancer, but not enough into revealing what it will be like to die of it.
Jeff and I had had many painful conversations over the previous two years. We talked about his living will, what kind of funeral he wanted, and where he wanted me to scatter his ashes. I'd asked about his passwords, life insurance, retirement plans, and his friends' phone numbers. He'd taught me how to change the furnace filter and start the lawn mower, and he'd taught our sons to grill - formerly mundane tasks that became achingly poignant. I had had to tell him when he could no longer be trusted to drive, pay the bills, do his work or, finally, perform his last remaining job: loading the dishwasher.
I thought we were pretty good at facing facts, but the last month of my husband's life took me into territory so foreign that I could not fully anticipate the problems I would face.
Over the years, I've seen papers from health-policy experts who wondered why more people don't die at home when that's what so many want, when that is where you have the best death. The answer now seems obvious to me. Taking care of the dying at home is harder, uglier work than many people can manage, especially with the amount of help that our health-care system provides.
