I Am Your Wife, Not Your Nurse

Dear Whom-It-May-Concern—

(Which, let’s be honest, is probably me. Because it’s always been me, hasn’t it?)

This is a formal notice of resignation.

Effective immediately. Or five minutes ago. Or years too late.

I hereby resign from the following position I never actually applied for but somehow inherited along the way: The Wife-Turned-Nurse-Who-Doesn’t-Get-Paid-But-Sure-Does-All-The-Shifts

I’m laying it down. All of it. The calm nodding. The endless patience. The whispered reassurances while something inside me screams. The calendar scribbled with appointments and blood test reminders instead of concerts and ferry crossings and late nights dancing barefoot in strange cities. I'm done pretending that being resilient is the same as being okay.

Let me be clear: I did not marry you to become your caretaker. I married you because you made me laugh so hard that wine came out my nose. I married you because you made me feel like I could breathe, like life was a song we were writing together, one chord at a time. I married you because your hands on my waist felt like home.

I married you before the cancer. Before the vomiting and the bedpans and the whispered consultations with consultants who don't look you in the eye. Before I memorized the names of medications like they were our new holiday destinations. Before I had to Google things like hepatocellular carcinoma and liver transplants and how long can someone live with Stage Whatever while pretending I was fine.

Remember when the only thing we argued about was whether Fleetwood Mac was overrated? Remember nights in dodgy pubs when you played cover sets for drunken tourists who didn't know you were famous? Remember when I’d stand in the crowd, a pint of cider in hand, mouthing every word back at you like a private language, like it was ours?

I don’t know where she went—that version of me.

But I miss her.

I miss being the girl who wore black eyeliner and made bad decisions. The girl who said, “Sod it, let’s go to Paris,” because we had two days off and a hundred pounds. I miss Sunday mornings when you made breakfast in nothing but your underwear, humming Springsteen while I lay tangled in our sheets, smiling at nothing. I miss being touched like I was wanted, not like I was needed.

Don’t get me wrong—there’s love in need. But there’s loss, too.

You lost your health.

And I lost… the map. The rhythm. The version of us I still dream about, even now.

I have tried so hard to be good. To be brave. To not crumble. To say all the right things while holding your sick bowl and cancelling yet another weekend away. I've cleaned up the aftermath of things no one warned me about—your body’s betrayals, and mine. Because you cry now, and I don’t know how to hold you and myself at the same time.

I know it's not your fault.

But it’s not mine either.

And still—I carry it all.

But not anymore.

Let me say this gently, so you can still hear the love behind the edges of my voice:

I am not a sponge. I cannot keep absorbing pain and guilt and silence and expectation and still stay soft.

I want to scream. And dance. And drink too much rosé wine in the garden on a Tuesday afternoon. I want to sleep on clean sheets without hearing your breathing pattern change at 2 a.m. and jolting awake, heart racing. I want to watch you play guitar again—God, even just once more. I’d give anything to see your eyes go wide when the crowd starts singing along before you even hit the chorus.

I want to stop pretending that grief hasn’t already moved in, even while you’re still here.

So here it is, in black and white, typed out like one of the appointment letters that keep flooding the doormat:

I resign.

From being the only one who holds it together.

From being your emotional shock absorber.

From being the one who never says, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Because I can’t.

And honestly? I won’t.

Don’t worry—I’ll still love you. Fiercely. Stupidly. Always. But from now on, I will also love myself. I will sit in the garden and cry if I need to. I will take breaks. I will say “no” when I mean it. I will let myself miss the before, even while I’m stuck in the after.

And if that makes me selfish, then so be it.

I’ve been a lot of things these past few years. Selfish wasn’t one of them.

I miss us. The real us. The before-us. The alive-us.

And even if I can’t get that back, I refuse to disappear inside this version completely.

So this is me, stepping off the pedestal.

Stepping out of the silence.

Stepping into whatever’s next.

Not your nurse.

Still your wife.

But also just—me.

Still here. Just not in the same way.