I vividly recall the morning my young husband was moved to a hospice facility. After sending the kids off to school, I walked into our home feeling overwhelmed—my hands shook, my heart raced, and my mind was a cacophony of thoughts. I felt utterly exhausted, both physically and emotionally.
What I needed was just ten minutes. Ten minutes to experience my feelings of fatigue, fear, and sadness. Ten minutes to allow myself to break down, knowing that I wouldn’t have another opportunity once my husband and children needed me to be their rock in the dark times ahead.
I settled onto the playroom carpet, basking in a small patch of sunlight. I let the weight of the word “hospice” wash over me. After twenty months of battling a relentless illness, I finally paused, letting tears stream down into my hair. I took those ten minutes to confront the haunting memories of a terrifying spinal MRI that still lingered in the space between wakefulness and sleep. I allowed myself to crumble.
I believed that ten minutes was all I had before the world would demand my attention again. Little did I know, I would come to regret that time.
Once I pulled myself together, I glanced at the clock. My husband was scheduled to be transported to hospice at 10 a.m. I realized that if I didn’t leave right away, I might miss his arrival. I envisioned us passing on the highway, and I couldn’t bear the thought of not being there for his first moments in hospice. After being his caregiver for so long, I knew I had to be present for him one last time.
So, I made a choice. Instead of rushing to the hospital, I packed pillows, blankets, picture frames, and stuffed animals to create a comforting space for him at the hospice. I wanted him to feel embraced by love.
However, I should have known that “10 a.m.” in hospital terms rarely means on time. Delays were the norm, a lesson I had learned repeatedly during the long months of his treatment. Yet, somehow, I thought this transfer would adhere to the schedule.
I waited, paralyzed by uncertainty—wanting to be with him but terrified of missing his arrival. For what felt like the hundredth time since his diagnosis, I longed to be in two places at once, feeling hopelessly trapped.
When he finally arrived, he was either asleep or sedated. I still can’t say for sure. He didn’t wake as he was transferred from stretcher to bed or when he saw the children’s drawings hanging on the walls. As day turned to night and night into morning, the kids and I kept vigil in the room I had prepared, hoping it would feel like home and offer him love. I had created that space after taking those ten minutes for myself.
Those ten minutes were filled with fear while he was slipping into a coma, speaking his last words to doctors who didn’t know him the way I did. Ten minutes to crumble when he needed me to be strong. Ten minutes that turned into a lifetime of regret.
For a long time, I struggled to forgive myself for those ten minutes. I tried to rationalize my decision, reminding myself that I couldn’t have known that morning would be our last time together when he was awake. Just a week prior, he had a successful surgery for his third brain tumor, and the doctors had told me he still had weeks to live. The night before, he had enjoyed a Wendy’s spicy chicken sandwich, seemingly engaged with life. Ultimately, I’ve come to terms with needing time for myself—there’s no shame in being human.
Still, I will always wish I had made a different choice, one that prioritized being with him rather than falling apart. Yet, I am grateful for that choice as it gave me the strength to create a room filled with love for my kids to share with their father, to be the first voice he heard in hospice, and to offer the stability my children needed when their world turned upside down.
Regret can be a dangerous sentiment, a poison that can taint one’s entire life if allowed to fester. However, it doesn’t define my narrative. Regret exists within it, but it is only a fleeting chapter in a much larger story filled with love, resilience, and hope.
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Summary:
In a moment of vulnerability, a woman reflects on her biggest regret—taking ten minutes for herself right before her husband was transferred to hospice. While battling with the weight of caregiving, she chose to pause and regroup, not realizing how critical those moments were. Despite the chaos and uncertainty, she ultimately found strength in her decision, creating a loving space for her husband during his final days, even as she grappled with the haunting nature of regret.
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