The author and his wife, Diane, who passed on Sept. 7.

It’s never a good thing when the emergency room staff know you by name. Diane had been experiencing gastrointestinal issues for some time, and had visited the ER 27 times in the past year for nausea, vomiting and diarrhea. Over a nine-month period, her gastroenterologist performed two colonoscopies and an endoscopy. He finally came up with a diagnosis of arteriovenous malformations. “Don’t worry,” he said, “there’s no sign of cancer. Most people with this condition can lead a normal life.” In Diane’s case, he was wrong ― dead wrong.

March 1, 2022, was the day our lives changed forever. We thought it was just another visit to the ER. I was expecting the usual testing protocol: an injection of promethazine or Zofran for the nausea, followed by discharge. This time was different. An imaging test had revealed two spots on Diane’s liver ― probably cancerous, they said. I was stunned. Surely further testing would provide another explanation. It had been less than a month since the gastroenterologist did the endoscopy and found no malignancies.

Radiology confirmed the cancer diagnosis. Even worse, it was inoperable colon cancer that had spread to the liver, and the GI doctor somehow never saw it. My spouse, my wife of 52 years, my high school sweetheart was going to die, and there was nothing I or anyone else could do about it.

Supporting a loved one who is living with terminal cancer is the second hardest thing I’ve done in my 73 years on earth. The hardest thing for me was when Diane stopped living with it and started dying from it. The visual evidence of her decline and the relentless approach of her death was terrifying.

She tried her best. We were referred to a local cancer centre, and the clinical team there assured Diane that the liver tumours were relatively small. She was an excellent candidate for chemotherapy. Another two years of life was a reasonable expectation. Three or four wasn’t out of the question. I felt a stirring of hope. Chemotherapy would give Diane the precious gift of time. Meanwhile, there was the possibility of new drugs, new discoveries, maybe even a cure. A light, however dim, was flickering at the end of the tunnel.

We confirmed an appointment for the chemo port procedure a few days later. When Diane canceled at the last minute, I was surprised and alarmed. The clock was ticking, the tumours were growing; we needed to do this now. At the same time, I didn’t want to push her. It wasn’t my body, my illness, or my decision to make. I breathed a sigh of relief when she rescheduled the appointment and kept it.

During this period I had begun researching and making inquiries to a few prominent cancer facilities, most notably the Mayo Clinic. I........

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