I’ll never forget the phone call from my wife, Diane, in late August 2016. We were both at work. I could tell in her voice that something was wrong. Fighting back tears and using her pet name for me, she said, “Boober, the doctor just called and I have breast cancer.”
Less than a month later, Diane was told that the cancer had metastasized. Thus began the arduous trek that we would undertake for the next six years. I can’t begin to describe the panic, dread and terror that we both felt amid the uncertainty, with Diane having to undergo treatments and my trying to be as supportive as possible.
But one thing was certain: We were in this together. Diane vowed to fight—and fight like hell she did. We had been together for 30 years at that point, and the next half-dozen would bring us closer together and, in the process, forge a bond based on our love for each other and—in a surprise to me—on our shared faith.
We knew God would not give either of us any more than what we could handle, and we would frequently talk about how we each have crosses to bear.
Diane had been raised a Baptist, though she was non-practicing. I had become Catholic, and I regularly attended Mass and served as a liturgical reader. Diane occasionally joined me at Mass, but she never expressed a desire to become Catholic. Still, we prayed together daily and we spoke openly about her terminal illness. We knew God would not give either of us any more than what we could handle, and we would frequently talk about how we each have crosses to bear. And yes, we knew that the time would come when God would call each of us home.
As Diane underwent treatments, scans and experimental trials with new drugs, her body told her to slow down. She retired early and then, six months after her diagnosis, I noticed a change in her demeanor. I can only understand it as the Holy Spirit entering Diane’s heart. She attended Mass with me more often and she began volunteering at our parish: working at our soup kitchen, volunteering at our weekly bingo program and helping with food giveaways. Diane asked me questions about the Catholic faith, curious about how it compared to her Baptist upbringing. I did my best to answer her questions, to explain our rituals. Her curiosity remained piqued and I sensed something deep was driving her questions.
One day Diane told me that she would like to speak with our priest. When she returned from the meeting, she told me about Father Kevin’s replies to her questions. He had told her that being gay is not a sin, that God loves everyone. Our parish in Youngstown, Ohio, is not wealthy. It always seems like it is struggling to make ends meet. But that accepting attitude from a diverse range of parishioners was in plentiful supply.
Six months after her diagnosis, I noticed a change in her demeanor. I can only understand it as the Holy Spirit entering Diane’s heart.
Finally, Diane told me that she wanted to go through our parish R.C.I.A. program and become Catholic. And she wanted me, her wife of more than three decades, to be her sponsor.
After each R.C.I.A. session, Diane and I would discuss what we learned, bringing us closer together in our faith and love of the Lord. Then, in the summer of 2020, while Diane was still fighting cancer, she was fully received into the Catholic Church. Diane chose Mary as her confirmation name. She told me that she felt a special connection to the Blessed Mother and that many influential people in her life were also named Mary—including me, her “Boober.”
When we returned to in-person worship, Diane volunteered as a lector. The first Sunday her name appeared on the schedule happened to be during a Mass when I was also reading. I’ll never forget that day. Diane read the first reading, I read the second. We sat together during Mass, enjoying a moment of worshiping God and quiet gratitude for the gift we had been given: the chance to spend many decades in love.
That would be the last time Diane had the strength to read at Mass.
We sat together during Mass, enjoying a moment of worshiping God and quiet gratitude for the gift we had been given: the chance to spend many decades in love.
The next several months were a blur. I retired and then underwent major back surgery. Diane grew sicker, and her family helped care for her as I recovered. Finally, in late November, Diane returned home from the hospital in Cleveland where she was being treated. Only semi-alert, she nonetheless called me close to her.
“Boober,” she said, “the best part of my life has been with you.”
That would be the last thing Diane would say to me.
I sat by her for as long as my back pain allowed. I sang hymns and recited prayers.
Finally, in early December, Diane’s breath grew short. Her journey had come to an end. I held Diane’s hand and told her it was okay to go, that the Lord was calling her home. I read her Scripture, and while I was holding her hand, on December 5th at 1:00 a.m., she crossed over. I could feel that she was at peace. But I was about to enter the darkest place I had ever known.
I could feel that she was at peace. But I was about to enter the darkest place I had ever known.
It is hard to describe the depths of loneliness I felt waking up each day alone and how empty I felt looking over at the chair she sat in each evening as we relaxed and watched TV or read. At this point, well into the holiday season, I could feel myself slipping deeper into the darkness when I reached out to the Lord, praying the Beatitudes.
“Lord, you preached ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted,’” I prayed. “I am in need of comforting.” It was a prayer that I would recite many times each day, aching for the comfort the Lord had promised.
The months went by, my back began to heal, and I was able to drive myself to Mass. At first, it was tough to sit alone in the pew where Di and I had sat together for many years. But eventually, I felt the Lord there with me, and I could sense that he was calling me.
“Lord, you preached ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted,’” I prayed. “I am in need of comforting.”
Two years on from Diane’s death, I still mourn—and the Lord still comforts me. There are days when I feel so overwhelmed and frustrated that I wonder how I can go on without her and without her reassurance and patience. During those times, I talk to the Lord, asking him to comfort me and give me strength. I can hear the Lord say to me, “I am with you always,” and I know that I can make it, even if it’s just one day at a time.
With All Souls Day approaching and Advent on the horizon, I find myself thinking about my final months with Diane, her entry into our church and that Sunday Mass when we were both readers of the Word.
While the memory of Diane’s last days and death are still raw, my faith has helped me navigate her loss and continues to do so each day. I know Diane is with me, and I feel her presence often. I talk to her daily, sometimes in a casual chat and, at other times, very angrily, asking why she had to leave me. I can feel her answering me, and I can even “hear” her telling me not to be so critical of myself, to slow down and to not overreact to situations.
While the memory of Diane’s last days and death are still raw, my faith has helped me navigate her loss and continues to do so each day.
I am still a reader at Mass, and while each opportunity to proclaim the Word is meaningful, that one morning when Diane and I both lived out our faith together is the moment I will always cherish. Though she is not physically sitting beside me at Mass, I still feel her presence there with me.
