George had always taken care of everything — doing the cooking, paying the bills, deciding what we should do for fun and driving us there to do it.

When he was diagnosed with metastasized male breast cancer in 2009, he chose to handle his treatment on his own. He drove himself to and from chemotherapy. He stopped off on his way to work to get his chest zapped with radiation before continuing on with his hour-plus commute.

He would not let me come to the hospital with him. He directed his doctors not to talk to me.

I thought he was the most considerate cancer patient in the world.

George was in denial about his condition. He swore to me that he was getting better, even though his body was failing.

He died in the hospital three days later on April 10th, 2013, still believing he would get better and come home.

And I still feel mired in shame and regret. I look fine, but what if people saw the real me, the angry, uncontrolled me I’d been when George was dying?

My burden following my husband’s death was knowing that I was a terrible caregiver and a bad person.

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