When the Dung Ball Stops Rolling

There’s something about New Year’s Eve this year that makes me pause and wonder:
How could I ever be resistant to the countdown to a new year?

I see so many struggling—begging for the new year to come.
Yet I sit here mourning it, trying to hold on to every second left of 2021.

But why?

Like many, 2021 was a rough year. But my grief didn’t start there—it began at the end of 2020.

In 2020, Kris was re-diagnosed with brain cancer.
COVID began taking a toll on our family-run business. While we were still standing—barely—Kris and I were having long conversations about what to do next.

He had beaten cancer before, and dammit, he was going to do it again. We believed we’d be back to work in no time.

Our business, over six years strong, had beat the odds. We loved what we did. But things were getting hard. Between chemo, shutdowns, and lost revenue, we were forced to close our second location—and teetered on the edge of bankruptcy.

I wasn’t ready to let it all go.

Kris loved his work. I worried—if we gave it up, would he lose his purpose? His fight? That business became a carrot at the end of chemo and radiation.

And me? I wasn’t ready to lose what gave me purpose.
We had created something meaningful. Letting it go felt like a deep failure.

Winter 2020, Kris finished chemo and radiation, but then developed a blood clot. He needed surgery.

I clung to hope, desperate to wake from the nightmare. But life had more in store.

A court custody battle began in early COVID 2020 and dragged deep into 2021. I was ordered to put my son on a plane for visitation—in the height of COVID—to Hawaii. I couldn’t be with my husband in the hospital. I couldn’t work. And now I had to send my son into unknown risk and fear?

What was I supposed to do?

I dropped him off at the airport with my heart in knots. And then—on the car ride home—Kris had a massive seizure.

The universe intervened. My son didn’t see it (seizure). He wasn’t there for the hard hospital days. And though I still struggle with how that chapter began, I now see grace in how it unfolded.

I was torn in all directions. But all I could do was focus on what was in front of me.

2021 felt like a dung beetle pushing a sh*t ball uphill.
And suddenly, it reached the top—and started rolling down fast.

Kris was considered “stable.” We had some good days. But little signs nagged at me—like when I heard his shoe drag in a parking garage. Something was off.

Then things accelerated. He started slurring his words. His right side weakened.

We hadn’t been at work for a while. Our remaining location was barely functioning without us. We decided to sell our home.

Our dream home.

We had worked so hard for it. Beautiful, full of memories. I wondered if he’d get better and we’d regret selling—but the pressure was suffocating. We needed to shift.

When we got an offer, we were excited... and heartbroken.
Kris began speaking in jumbled sentences. I tried to stall the sale. Maybe it was a medication issue? I just needed time. But time ran out.

I was left wondering: Did I do what he would have wanted?

Making big decisions without his voice became one of the loneliest things I’ve ever faced.

Eventually, he could only nod yes or no. I tried rephrasing questions to make it easier—but it got harder.

Each night, I cried, afraid he’d be worse in the morning. Could this really be radiation side effects? Or was this our new reality?

I held onto hope.

Then my son came home. He noticed immediately—Kris couldn’t play the same. He couldn’t talk like before. My son pulled back at first, confused. But later, I found him reading to Kris. And Kris would smile.

Moving out was devastating.

I cried a deep, gut-wrenching cry. Not just for the house. Not just for the memories. But for what I was leaving behind—my neighborhood animals.

After my dog passed away, I started feeding the crows—part penance, part therapy. I’d talk to them, feed squirrels, watch bunnies peek through the hedges. I’d sit outside asking the clouds and animals for answers.

The crows never brought me shiny things in return. Maybe they were still mad about the dog. I understood. But they—and all the animals—got me through.

When I locked the door one final time, I looked down.
There was a crow feather. A sign. Or maybe a parting gift after all.

Either way—I knew I was on the right path.

We moved into an apartment near work and my son’s school.

Kris didn’t look sick. But he couldn’t walk or talk much longer after we moved in.

Then one day, I realized—he had stopped saying “I love you.”

There’s a pain only those who’ve watched someone slowly dissolve before their eyes can understand.

His legs once carried him through mission trips. His arms once threw me over his shoulder. His personality, dulled by meds. His sparkle—fading.

I questioned the professionals daily. If the cancer wasn’t growing, what was happening?

I became that patient advocate. I didn’t care if I was “too much.” Kris gave others great care—he deserved the same.

He was brilliant in the medical field. I know he knew what was happening. He just couldn’t say it.

Looking back—would I have accepted the truth even if he told me?

No.

Because I already knew. I just didn’t want to accept it.

And then came the confirmation: the cancer was growing.

I think Kris was waiting for that. To know he had done everything possible.

He was tired.

That night, he pushed away his medications.

I knew.

We had talked before. I didn’t need words.

I was angry. Once again, I had to surrender. But this time, I could control one thing:
I could support him. Love him. Be present.

When he stopped the meds, a little piece of him returned. For a few days, he smiled. He laughed. He played with the kids.

Then, one night, he grabbed my hand, pressed it to his face, and smiled with tears in his eyes.

I kissed him, laid my head in his lap, and we fell asleep together.

That night, I dreamt for the first time in a long time.
I dreamt of when we first said “I love you.”

When I woke, I knew.

September 3, 2021.

So why is it hard to let go?

Because someday I’ll remember him longer than I actually knew him. And that thought breaks me.

In 2021, I never had time to process the pain. I just kept moving, kept swinging, trying to control anything I could.

Writing this gave me space. It helped me find closure and offer myself grace.

I’ve learned to let go of what I can’t control and trust the unfolding.
The end of a year doesn’t erase the good moments tucked in the hard ones.

This is just one step in my grieving journey. One that will never fully end—but I can choose how I move forward.

I’m grateful for the time, the lessons, the love I was lucky enough to receive—and the ability to still see beauty in life.

And yes—the crows still visit my balcony.
(I wonder if they’re the same ones.)

I accept all that is good for me in the new year.
I don’t think that dung ball has much momentum left to roll into 2022...

So here I go. 🖤