My husband has cancer. Sometimes I feel like a yo-yo, up one moment, down the next. The strong, firmly-fleshed body that warmed the bed at night is now thin as a rail and sometimes even a small hug hurts too much. Although it is the worst of times, it is also the best of times. I see God in the faces of so many who try to help. The Cancer Clinic in Edmonton was so good to us. The one here in Grande Prarie is so personal and cares so deeply. They are as delighted as I am when the chemo treatments seem to be working. His pain is less, mobility greater and appetite improving. But there is more chemo ahead and it is like walking through the valley of death. Not so much physically; the new drugs are wonderful, but the depression, the fatigue, the complete lack of appetite in a man who once lived to eat. These are heavy loads.

All in good time!” my husband used to say. “All in good time.” In our younger years this drove me crazy because I'm one of those impetuous people who make snap decisions, wondering why in the world anyone would waste time mulling over something that you already knew was the right thing to do.

Sympathy cards poured in after my husband died, some from people I didn't even know. The phone rang constantly, visitors were at the door and I felt surrounded by a cocoon of love and caring.

This pamphlet has been prepared with the intent of helping you through this difficult time. Following my husband's death, I made two mistakes which took months to rectify. But a year later, while handling his mother's affairs, I was fully prepared. And I trust, with this information at hand you will be too.

To help you through this difficult time, this pamphlet has been prepared. Following my husband's death, I made two mistakes, which took months to rectify. But a year later, while handling his mother's affairs, I was fully prepared. And I trust, with this information at hand you will be, too.

It takes no talent to become a widow. There's no course of study. Your spouse dies and, then, there you are, a full-fledged widow but with absolutely no experience. And even though you knew weeks beforehand that this was going to happen (as I did) you still aren't as prepared as you thought you were going to be. When my husband Art drew his last breath and I knew he had passed on, I felt utterly bewildered, not knowing just what was expected of me. Should I weep and wail, or should I be quiet and stoic? Actually, I did both — weeping and wailing in private for myself, and quiet and stoic for my children who were suffering their own deep grief.