By Barb Edler 11 March 2026

Lately, the end of life has been predominantly playing an endless tune in my mind. Questions reel. What’s really important? What’s next? How should I prepare? What questions should I ask?

My husband is struggling with lung cancer. On Monday he will have new scans taken. Perhaps, we will receive good news, but maybe not. He has intense pain in his right shoulder, a shoulder where the cancer has spread, and he’s already received five radiation treatments.

After the PET scans, his oncologist will decide whether or not he will receive more radiation or chemo. The clock is ticking. The wait is excruciating.

Yesterday, I was in two writing workshops. “Nebulous” is a complete piece of fiction, and the beautiful women part refers to when my father was passing. My sister said he woke up from a morphine stupor and reported that he dreamt he was surrounded by beautiful women. “Nebulous” is inspired by Jackson Pollock’s White Light.

Nebulous

I hold my husband's cold hand
in the white room with white lights, 
no windows,
stinking of antiseptics and urine.

He is leaving me—
I can feel his soul keening
towards a new room,
one with an open vista, gold lights,
perfumed air.

I imagine him surrounded by beautiful women
redheads, brunettes, blondes—
all the vixens he’d lusted after through life.

Then I hear him whisper,
“Mother.”

Now I'm pissed,
knowing I've never 
been number one.

I let go of his hand,
feel his soul slip elsewhere,
where I'm sure he'll find
his mother waiting,
arms wide open.