Tony Stewart, known for his achievements in filmmaking and software technology, introduces Carrying the Tiger, his debut memoir, and a semifinalist for the BookLife Prize Nonfiction Contest. After losing his wife, Lynn, to cancer, he shares what he learned about love and the grieving process.
What gave you the will to share your journey with Lynn’s cancer with the world?
Carrying the Tiger began as private journal posts on CaringBridge.org to keep friends and family informed about Lynn’s cancer. This private audience freed me to share more than I would in a public forum. Our friends enjoyed reading the posts, which encouraged me to continue.
When the drugs stopped working and Lynn died beside me, I assumed I’d stop writing. But I couldn’t—writing became integral to my healing. Several readers wrote that my journal helped them deal with their own grief. In those months, I realized using our story to help other people could turn my loss into something meaningful.
What are your most cherished takeaways from your experience of loving and grieving a partner?
Our physical closeness when we walked together, Lynn’s hand clutching my arm for support, her other hand grasping her cane, evokes real, tactile memories. These are metaphors for what I cherish most; Lynn’s cancer brought us closer together.
By the time Lynn died, we were like two soldiers fighting a war, dodging bullets. This created a love and trust we’d never experienced, a true partnership. Lynn supported me as much as I supported her. In her last days, Lynn encouraged me to be open to love after she died. This final gift carried me through the shattering grief that followed.
What role did writing play in your grieving process?
In the years before Lynn died, I grew to love writing the posts. During hospice I wrote almost every night. It was such a beautiful, spiritual time. I would wake at 3 a.m. filled with tender memories that I wanted to share. Then I kept writing even after her death. I think it’s crucial for anyone experiencing deep grief to find a way to let out their feelings, whether that means sharing them with a trusted friend or a therapist or joining a grief support group.
Looking back, are there any moments of your journey you now recall differently?
I see moments differently, not more richly. Writing Carrying the Tiger was an experience of iterative rediscovery. When I began, nine years had passed since Lynn’s diagnosis and almost three since she died.
With each recollection, my memory became clearer, like a developing photograph. I started by editing the CaringBridge posts and finding the story’s bones. The results were straightforward but dry. So I restored a lot of the comments. A solo journey became a caravan of friends giving us strength, insight, and encouragement.
Then I focused on what wasn’t in those posts. I chronicled details Lynn had asked me to omit about pain, side effects, and fear to avoid being pitied.
Then came the biggest shift. This had been Lynn’s story. In earlier drafts, I focused on her experience, barely mentioning my challenges—my breakdown, my terror when I thought she was losing her mind. This gave the book energy, an interesting perspective. One scene I cherish describes the couple we met in the Sloan Kettering waiting room. Considering how these experiences affected me, I realized the couple reminded me of others who faded away, a poignant observation that ended the scene.
By the end of the book, it sounds like you’ve learned to live with a grief that was once overwhelming. Any life updates you’d like to share?
The last section of Carrying the Tiger explores integrating new love into my life while still deeply grieving Lynn. I don’t want to spoil those pages for the reader, but things are going well. Most importantly, I enjoyed creating Carrying the Tiger so much that I’ve decided to continue writing.
