All Will Be Well: Love In Tough Times

I think it’s safe to say that love has its ups and downs. Let’s be honest, it can’t always be candy and roses. Often, it’s diapers and strollers, yard work and dry-cleaning, or even catheters and wheelchairs. Friendships, romances, relationships – they all take work. Even if you’re the perfect couple, such as Dan and me (if I do say so myself), maintaining a solid relationship takes effort, it takes nurturing.

At the hospital.
At the hospital.

A successful relationship, I believe, is built largely on:

1) A mutual respect for one another.

2) A genuine “like” for each other

3) And a willingness to make sacrifices on behalf of the other.

The first two seem quite logical to me. Who would choose a partner they don’t like or respect? But the third one, that bit about making sacrifices? I’m not so sure I was as prepared for that one when I said “I do.” But successful relationships take sacrifice. And making sacrifices takes humility. It takes washing down that big old pill called Pride with a full glass of water. And that’s tough. We all know that love is patient and love is kind. But I recently learned first-hand that love is truly humble.

On April 25th, 2014, I received a phone call that I always dreaded, yet never expected. I nervously answered the phone and listened to our beloved doctor on the other end of the line tell me that she found leukemia in my husband’s blood. I listened to her say that in approximately two-to-four weeks those leukemia cells would multiply ferociously and overtake Dan’s bloodstream. I asked her a question to which I already knew the answer. I processed her grim response. Dan was dying.

Because I was at work, I had to keep the news to myself until I could deliver it to him more than an hour later, face to face in his hospital bed. With tears in my eyes, I told my husband he was dying. I told him I was sorry and that I loved him. Sort of blankly, probably numb with shock, he said, “Are you serious? I’m dying? I’m seriously dying?” And then he cried. With tears filling his crystal blue eyes, he said, “I love you. I’m sorry, sweetie. But it’s okay. I’m okay. Promise me you’ll be okay, too.”

“I promise,” I whispered.

Hanna and Dan leaving their apartment.
Hanna and Dan leaving their apartment.

I recently started back to work after three months of bereavement with family and friends. I packed my lunch and picked out my outfit the night before my first day, set my alarm, then lay in bed, anticipating my first-day jitters. Groggy and anxious, I left my empty apartment the next morning and drove myself to the school that I hadn’t seen since April, I walked to the room where I received a horrible phone call, and then I sat down in the chair where I heard a devastating prognosis. But I was okay.

In those days leading up to my first day, in the hours before, the minutes until I set foot in that building, I was not okay. Nothing was okay. My mind raced with negative thoughts – Dan is gone – I’m alone – I have no one and nothing to go home to – I’m empty. I was overcome with crippling sadness and debilitating anxiety. I cried. I wept. I shook. But I knew that when Monday came, I had no choice but to go to work, to move on, in a way. And I needed something to give me the strength to do it.

So, I reminded myself of Dan’s humble words again. “I’m okay. Promise me you’ll be okay, too.” I rallied my “All will be well” mojo and stepped into my school with clear eyes and a full heart. Dan’s love filled me, and I was okay.

If Dan could be “okay” with dying, how could I not be okay living this life he loved so deeply? Dan loved so much that, even in death, he focused on others. He didn’t choose to die, but when death was imminent, when he had no choice, he was selfless; he was genuinely humble in the absolute truest sense of the word. He didn’t ask for pity, as many, rightfully, do (and deserve!). He didn’t push us away or shield himself, or us, from the emotions he felt in his profoundly vulnerable state. He let us in. And for that I am eternally grateful.

Love isn’t just long walks on the beach and date nights. It isn’t simply the Game Show Network and Pizza Fridays. Love can’t always be white picket fences and bouncing babies. Love is humble. Loving Dan is equally the easiest and hardest thing I’ve ever done. Dan died nearly three weeks to the day from our conversation in his hospital room. In three short weeks, he taught me a lesson in love that I will carry with me forever. In those three dreadfully short weeks of hospice, he humbly accepted his fate and showed us it was “okay.”

Next time you find loving someone to be difficult, remember that, humbly loving them anyway is how you grow. The next time you feel like working at love is too hard, remind yourself that it’s worth it. Life is precious. Our time living it is limited. Spend it loving. Live it humbly. Live it for others.

Let love in. It never fails.

Hanna

Hanna is a young widow who remains positive that love can heal. When Hanna and her husband, Dan, were dating, he was diagnosed with leukemia, throwing them into an uphill battle against statistics. They got engaged, then married, and spent 4 wonderful years together, where they learned all too well what it means to love each other "in sickness and in health.” Dan passed away following countless rounds of chemo, dangerous complications, a bone marrow transplant and, ultimately, a fatal relapse. Through it all, they maintained an “all will be well” attitude and strengthened their love for each other along with a team of thousands who rooted for them the entire way.

Hanna believes that love is the reason Dan fought as long and hard as he did. She believes that love heals, and hopes that through her story others will learn to find joy, big and small, in every single day.
Hanna
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5 Comments

  • I was married to my husband Mark for 15 years. Lung cancer took him in just 10 short months. I understand all too well your story. It took me a little longer to feel okay. But I’m there now. He passed away on 10-11-12. The last two weeks before he died I know now he knew his time was short. He was ready and had made peace with the fact he was dying even though those around him- myself included- weren’t ready to let go. We still miss him but I am moving on as he wanted me to do.

  • Hanna You continue to inspire us and keep us focused on what the really important things are in life – God bless you

  • Hanna…it is so nice to see these feelings and lessons we learn from those that we love on paper. The basic core of your relationship with Dan sounds so much like mine with my husband. When he was dying from pancreatic cancer he showed me such love, kindness, humility, bravery, feelings so deep they are hard to put into words but you have so eloquently done that. I so appreciate reading your posts. They give me strength and maybe some understanding into the big question for me….why him??? Thank you…Susan

  • Hanna I am so touched by your beautiful story. You are a blessing to to Dan and those you touch daily. You are an inspiration. Keep up the posts.

  • Beautiful post, Hanna. I’m not sure if anyone can ever fully be prepared for what it means to love humbly like you do. Thanks for sharing!

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