I noted above that we had a nice visit to St. Louise that day. And we did. But—these visits were always a bit of a double- edged sword. 

If you had to read The Scarlet Letter in high school, you probably remember Hester Prynne. She was sentenced to wear a big, red letter “A”—for Adultery—on her chest as penance for her crime, making her status easily identifiable by all. 

Well, I have to tell you, for the duration of Dennis’s illness, I felt like Hester Prynne. I had the overwhelming sense I was walking around with a giant “FW” emblazoned on my shirt. 

Future Widow. 

I especially felt this when walking around the kids’ school. St. Louise has a wonderful, tight-knit, caring community. And it seemed like just about everyone there—those I knew, and those I didn’t—had heard about our situation. 

Many people at the school, and elsewhere, were following my posts on CaringBridge. That was fine with me—I’d rather be open about it, so people would know what was happening, and so neither I nor anyone else would be dancing around the topic. This approach of sharing openly also resulted in a tremendous amount of support for my family, which I very much appreciated. And very much needed. 

There was a downside, however. I could not walk around the kids’ school without feeling like all eyes were on me. I imagined they were thinking, Oh, there’s that poor woman again. 

And: She’s a future widow. 

Maybe I was overthinking it. Maybe I was assuming that everyone was following along more closely than they actually were. Maybe I figured that people would know that “glioblastoma” may as well have been synonymous with “death sentence”—or do a quick web search if they didn’t. I had posted about Dennis’s diagnosis in a “just the facts” manner—without elaboration, or editorial comment—as I didn’t have the wherewithal to do anything else. Anyway, when you’re deep in the middle of a crisis, it can be hard to have proper perspective on what others may be thinking. 

I do know that the question “How are you?”—which was, of course, asked when I ran into just about anyone—would usually throw me into an existential tailspin. 

It seems like a simple question. Uttered, often, without thought. A greeting, almost, in normal circumstances. 

“Hey, how are you?” 

“Fine, how are you?” 

“Fine, thanks.” 

And then everyone goes about their day. 

Except, when your 44-year-old husband has brain cancer, it’s not such a simple question. 

The inquiry might come at school pickup. It might come by text; it might come from a neighbor or friend stopping by with dinner; it might come on the sidelines of the soccer field. 

Getting this question—which, I should add, was always coming from someone sincere and well-meaning—would cause fits of uncertainty in me. 

You see, I find it an impossible question. It requires a series of split-second calculations: 

Who is asking? Do they really want to know, or are they just being polite? 

How much do they already know? If I were to even begin to answer, how much context do I need to give? Are they interested in summary-level status, or the details of the latest medical news? 

Am I even interested in telling this person how I really and truly am? 

And anyway, how am I? Can I even answer that for myself, much less for anyone else? 

At any given moment, there might be multiple answers that were all true. I mean, on one level, I might be fine. Or even good. I might not have a headache, and I might have eaten recently, for example. But on another level—say, the existential level—my whole life was falling apart before my eyes. So, in that respect, I was the exact opposite of “fine.” 

More often than not, all these thoughts would swirl in my head for a fraction of a second, I’d sigh and give up, and out of my mouth would come: “Fine.” Which was neither helpful nor accurate, but it was all I could muster. And I’d miss a chance to connect with someone who really did care, and really did want to help.

I learned from this experience that “How are you today” is a more manageable question than the all-encompassing “How are you?” It narrows the question down to one I’m much more likely to be able to answer. These days, I try to keep this in mind when checking on friends who are grieving or struggling in some way. I don’t always remember, but I always hope to.