My Husband Broke Out of Cancer Denial Only Once — on His Final Birthday

Four years ago today, we celebrated what would become my husband Jerry’s last birthday, his sixtieth.

At that point we had been living for quite a while on the edge of the worst of times. He had just come through a months-long thyroid cancer crisis he wouldn’t share with anyone, even as he walked around exhausted, with a surgically inserted tube in his chest through which we’d drain fluid from around his lungs every day.

In addition, Jerry’s teaching career, and my long stint as an unpaid caregiver for several people we’d been trying to help with their own hells on earth, had left us in a perpetual state of financial urgency. I tried my best to be present for everyone, and had become a wizard at navigating medical crises. But I felt like a complete failure in every other way.

So this moment of normalcy, of joy — of celebrating Jerry’s wonderful life, with our two kids and I singing Happy Birthday in English and then in Polish (“Sto lat!”), and enjoying each other’s company was a sweet, uplifting balm. A brief oasis between a rough stretch and an excruciating time to come.

Within the next few weeks, Jerry developed all kinds of new symptoms. He suddenly had trouble completing the NY Times daily crossword puzzle. His appetite dipped, and in the…