Offering my support
By Jaime
April 1, 2010
A woman I know who works in the helping professions was just thrust into the world of cancer by her husband’s cancer diagnosis. I mistakenly thought she would not need tools like the Lance Armstrong Foundation survivorship notebook because she would instinctively know what to do. But my own instinct took over and I gave it to her, and her gratitude was evident. It made me realize that no matter what, people need help – even if they help others for a living. After she told me about her husband, I wrote this.
| Strength has a way of breeding more strength. |
I don’t know what it is like to have a husband with cancer. But when you told me your husband was diagnosed with a rare cancer, I saw the pain and fear and questions in your eyes, the determination to be positive and hope for the best; I know these feelings well.
It all made sense to me now — the sound in your voice a few weeks ago when you said that there was an emergency, that I couldn’t place but knew it sounded so familiar. It was stunned shock. I know what it’s like to mobilize forces and energy to get everything in place, line up appointments, call the appropriate people, get the second opinions and wait for results. I know the relief at hearing it can be easily taken care of, that it’s early stage; and yet I also know the anguish at hearing the cancer is advanced or metastatic and that treatment is possible, but not a cure.
I know what it’s like to look at everyone else, to look at the world around you and wonder how everyone else’s life goes on like normal, when your own has completely changed? Don’t they know that nothing will ever be the same? I know the cruel irony of a beautiful warm, sunny spring or fall day while life feels like it’s buried under one big dark cloud. I am intimate with late nights of staying up with the stars because sleep eludes me and my mind won’t shut off. I know what it’s like to have friends never mention anything or ask questions, when all the while you just want to unleash information and feelings.
I don’t know what it’s like to work full-time while my life feels like it’s in limbo, but I know what it’s like to have to study and perform when everything is uncertain. Though I don’t know what it’s like to have someone be diagnosed with a rare cancer, I know what it’s like to have a loved one be diagnosed with a rare-enough cancer (PPC) that no books are available at Barnes & Noble on it. I know the feeling of going to the bookstore to find something to give me information on what I’m supposed to do, what I’m supposed to say, what’s supposed to happen, and most of all just wanting to ask someone about it all.
People have surprised me in both good and bad ways; I imagine the same with you, too. I don’t know what it’s like to have children and tell them the news, but I do know what it’s like to want to, and need to, be strong for others. It gets easier, it does. And somehow, surprisingly, strength has a way of breeding more strength.
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