HJNO Mar/Apr 2026

HEALTHCARE JOURNAL OF NEW ORLEANS I  MAR / APR 2026 13 As I made the two-hour drive to the hos- pital to pick up my wife Leslie, all the emo- tions I had to keep at bay while at home with our two young daughters overwhelmed my defenses. I crashed through terror, confu- sion, exhaustion, and excitement. I was happy my wife was returning to our home, but our lives were radically different and the future uncertain. Until three months before, Leslie and I and our two daughters, Keri, age 3, andAmy, 1, had been a typical young family. The small cyst on Leslie’s forehead didn’t seem like a big deal, but it was literally the tip of the iceberg. At 28, my wife was diagnosed with sar- comatoid renal cell carcinoma (sRCC), a rapidly progressing kidney cancer that is rare; fewer than 4,000 cases are diagnosed each year. We were blindsided. None of the risk factors — chronic kidney disease, obe- sity, high blood pressure, exposure to cer- tain workplace chemicals, older age (usually over 60), and gender (men are twice as likely as women to have sRCC) — applied to my wife, who had normal blood pressure, was in excellent shape, had no history of kidney disease, and didn’t work in a setting where she was exposed to the chemicals associ- ated with sRCC. That she didn’t fit any of the risk fac- tors ultimately didn’t matter. She was soon in a fight for her life. A five-pound tumor attached to a nonfunctional kidney was found, and that little cyst on her forehead turned out to be the tip of a golf ball–sized tumor pushing on the thick outermost membrane protecting the brain. In just three months, Leslie had a nephrectomy to remove the nonfunctional kidney, neurosurgery to remove the tumor pushing on her prefrontal cortex, a valve placement in her head to reduce pressure, and a fight with sepsis that resulted in the removal of all her wisdom teeth. She had also begun MAID. This innoc- uous-sounding term is shorthand for the combination of agents used in a high-inten- sity chemotherapy protocol that required my wife to be hospitalized for a week when- ever it was administered because close monitoring was needed to ensure the treat- ment didn’t kill her. I was going to get her from the hospital after her fourth monthly treatment when in the quiet of the car I was overcome by the whirlwind of it all. After Leslie was diagnosed, we had our wills made, had Amy baptized, told family and community, resigned from our jobs, and figured out how to best keep the girls safe and as innocent as possible. We rearranged our home to fit medical needs: beds were moved, cabinets were locked to protect our daughters from the medical supplies. The routine of our lives was shattered. Now, there were medical, massage and body work, guided meditations, and cranial sacral appointments filling our calendar. We had to carefully consider potential exposures: a sneeze could introduce a virus. It felt like everything was a death trap, and yet, it was the world we were living in day in and day out. While we had people coming in and out of the house to support us, as the husband and father, a major portion of the in-home caregiving fell to me, and I didn’t want it any other way, even when invisibly maintain- ing our new “cancer bubble” life was barely sustainable and it felt like we were a family trying to survive on a sinking ship. On that car ride to pick up Leslie from the hospital, it all caught up with me, and I cried. I cried for my amazing wife, who even with diminishing stamina radiated love and care for our daughters. I cried for our angelic daughters, and even allowed myself to cry for me. Leslie died on February 8, 1993. When I think back to the two years our family was in the cancer bubble, I am in awe of Leslie, Keri, Amy, our family, our community, and our life. I had no idea that love could sus- tain the depths and fury of the flames of hell, and that taking one more step each day was a form of honoring the love of a wife and two daughters. Three years later, Keri and Amy and my mother-in-lawwere killed when the car they were in was T-boned by a trash truck. Amy and my mother-in-law died immediately. Keri died the next day in the same hospi- tal where most of her mama’s surgeries had taken place. The years of my wife’s cancer treatment and the losses that followed were a wild ride and set me on a journey that continues today in my soul and in my life, but not as continuing trauma. Rather, as one of growth and reverence. During that time, I had no idea there was something called trauma or that being a caregiver could be traumatic. Reflecting now, I understand that I spent more than two years constantly in a state of trauma as a caregiver, with nowhere in my mind to process the situation, my negated needs, and the enormous and profound experience. The loss of my children and mother- in-law led to new compounded trauma, depression, anxiety, and trauma-induced decisions and actions. Somehow, I eventu- ally realized I was now the one who needed care. I made mistakes, had successes, and committed to a lifetime of healing emotion- ally, physically, mentally, and spiritually. It was not easy and required support, but I stayed alive and slowly was able to pull out of the freefall of desperate reactionary deci- sions and actions and regain a foundation for life. Now 63, those days are decades behind me, but I am very aware that I committed to a lifetime process, and I domy best each and every day. I am happily remarried, and my life’s work is dedicated to emotional healing with a focus on grief and loss. I have shared my story often over the years, and in previous work discussed how trauma reshapes attachment, iden- tity, and the capacity for healthy relation- ships in both personal bonds and profes- sional caregiving roles. What has remained largely unaddressed, however, is a form of grief that unfolds not after loss but during the care process, and that’s what I’ll share through the rest of this article.