Thinking about you, Suzanne, hoping you are well. 🍓

Anita

Dear Suzanne:

I’m so sorry to hear about your brother’s diagnosis. I understand that treatments at this stage of the disease are typically palliative—focused on relieving symptoms and improving quality of life, rather than curing the illness. I truly hope he’s receiving the best care possible.

And please know: there’s nothing self-centered about grief—especially the kind that strikes deep in the gut and keeps returning in waves. That kind of news is seismic, and the heartbreak you’re feeling is profoundly human.

I hear so much love and loyalty in what you wrote. You’re showing up for your brother, despite past wounds, and that speaks volumes about your heart. The way you’re still caring for others—even in 100-degree heat, walking dogs and keeping them safe—that’s resilience in motion.

You’re not just coping—you’re moving through pain with quiet determination. You’re showing up for your brother. You’re tending to the dogs. You’re managing life alone in a house that feels heavy with memory. Despite her grief, fear, and the sense of being abandoned, you’re still choosing to show up with compassion for others.

Your care for your brother’s peace—whether or not he holds spiritual beliefs—is deeply tender. Just your steady presence can offer comfort, no beliefs required. Love reaches beyond those lines.

You are not broken, Sue. You are a woman standing in a storm, doing her best to love and hold steady. And I see that.

I also wanted to remind you of our conversation on May 11, about Radical Acceptance:

“Radical Acceptance is about accepting reality AS IS—without resistance… It’s a life philosophy that aims to reduce suffering by embracing life’s challenges without trying to change or deny them… By accepting the reality of a situation, you eliminate your internal struggle against it. This reduction in inner conflict can significantly decrease stress and anxiety… Implementing Radical Acceptance in your daily life is like giving yourself a gift – the gift of peace amidst the chaos.”

Still worth repeating, I think.

And also, the Serenity Prayer:

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; > the courage to change the things I can, > and the wisdom to know the difference.”-

This prayer holds meaning even without “God.” I imagine your brother might hear its spirit, if not its exact words.

Take gentle care of yourself, Suzanne. I’m thinking of you and sending warmth your way.

With heart, Anita

Dear Sue:

You’re so welcome—and thank you for your kind words. I’m really glad my message helped in some way.

You said something that stayed with me: “I still love him, and acceptance means I’m not fighting for him.” That’s such a powerful truth. When we love someone deeply, acceptance can feel like surrender. But sometimes, what keeps the pain alive is the fight itself—the part of us still holding onto who he used to be.

When someone we love changes so drastically—like Victor becoming almost a different person—it’s not just the relationship we lose. It’s the whole story we’ve been living: the memories, the roles we played, the “we” that once felt safe. And when that happens, it’s natural to hold tightly to the version of him we once knew: the familiar partner, the father of your children, the man who once said “us.”

So the fight—reaching out, hoping, replaying the past—isn’t just about wanting him back. It’s about not wanting to let go of that old version of him. And accepting that he’s no longer that person feels heartbreaking—like letting go of someone you still love.

But that same fight, even though it’s human, keeps reopening the hurt. Every time he doesn’t respond, every cold silence, every reminder of how he’s changed—it hurts all over again. In a way, the hope itself becomes a new kind of pain.

Your mention of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind really landed. That movie is about two people who try to erase their memories of a painful relationship. But even as the memories fade, the longing remains. The movie isn’t really about forgetting—it’s about how deeply love shapes us. It reminds me of what you’re feeling: the desire to stop hurting, and also the fear of what you’d lose if the feelings truly went away.

When you said, “I want to ask my psychiatrist for a pill that won’t get me high but make me feel nothing,” I heard that so clearly. The longing to just pause the pain, even for a moment. Some medications like SSRIs can help ease the sharpest edges—but sometimes, they also dull the joy and connection, not just the sadness. That can be a hard trade-off.

There are options worth exploring—like bupropion—which tend to cause less of that emotional numbness. It’s something your psychiatrist might talk through with you. But even just being able to say what you said here—“I’m in pain. I need relief”—is strong and brave. That honesty matters.

And those letters you’ve been writing to Victor but not sending? That, too, is radical acceptance. It’s you honoring your truth without depending on his response. That’s healing work, even if it’s quiet and hard.

You are not alone—not in your pain, not in your love, not in your anger or grief. You’re doing the invisible work of surviving something that was never supposed to happen. And it matters.

With care and respect, Anita