I know what I want to write, but am afraid that I’d be
insulting or overstepping my authority to speak on this subject, but it’s constantly on my mind and I need to let it out.
Our friends have Cancer.
Big “C.” One with an actual
medical diagnosis, and the other who is dealing with the first’s
diagnosis. It’s the family who must live
with it. And, as he gets weaker, needing
more and more treatments, she is the rock.
And, for the rest of us, she is the mouth. She is the point-source for information about
his condition…and it’s an exhausting job to have. She regularly posts on Facebook. There’s a huge community of people concerned
with their diagnosis; concerned with
their well-being as a family, our extended family. People want to help. Meal trains have been organized as well as fund-raising
drives. A second round of “swabbing” has
been announced to see if there’s a donor match for her husband, as he now needs
a second transplant.
And then there’s the kids.
Both have been amazing, mostly due to mom, grandma and grandpa, who are
holding this fragile family together.
There’s only so much we as friends can do as we’re not putting them to
bed at night, and we’re not waking up with them in the morning. And, there is no good news. At least, there is no satisfying news. Good news is relative. From my limited understanding, the doctors
have yet to say “there’s no more we can do.”
And, with that, it may be the best news, or the most positive take on
what’s happening…what’s been happening for well over a year.
And, through it all, she posts on Facebook. Her writings are matter of fact and to the
point. There is no sugar coating. There can’t be. Even in the most dire of times, it seems,
based on the posts, that she’s holding it together. And I don’t know how she’s doing it.
Put in perspective, my family’s ordeal lasted a mere 26 days
in hospital, and then a couple of months out of the hospital, and there’s been
measurable success, improvement, change.
During that time, I kept telling myself that I needed to hold my shit
together. Keep cool in front of the kids
at all times. Screaming is OK…in the car…alone. Being angry is OK. But, to tell the truth, it didn’t really come
to that because my mind was swimming with medical acronyms and status updates,
speaking with the nurses, updating family and friends, and being completely
consumed in the hospital environment. I
was my wife’s sentry, trying to protect both her and everyone else who was
concerned. I was numb.
Amplify that by a power of at least 10, and that’s what she’s
going through. At the point where the
most recent diagnosis was a return of the Cancer, I am not sure how she didn’t
explode. It’s a setback for his recovery and it pushes relief for her back
because none of us can carry her burden.
And, right now, that burden is limited to more waiting. Why only that? The Cancer has already divided her
family. It’s done its damage. It’s weakened her husband. It’s caused her to be more intimately
knowledgeable with medicines and healthcare of a loved one than anyone outside
of the medical field should be forced to know.
It’s taken the joy out of anniversaries, birthdays, events, holidays,
every days. Not because there wasn’t acknowledgement,
but because the Cancer overshadows.
The diagnosis pushes back the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel…and
it’s hard. But, most difficult of all is
knowing that you have to continue to be that sentry, and that there’s no one else
who can play that role.
I am writing this because she can’t. She has to be outwardly realistic and
politically positive. There are too many people who
only know a peripheral amount of what happens in a hospital daily. And that’s fine. I’m not sure we would be able to handle all
of the ins and outs as well as she has. But, we need to help. We want to help. We’re going to help.
First, as you read this, say out loud the following “FUCK
CANCER.” It’s nothing she can write or
put on a t-shirt. It’s absolutely
appropriate. Every time there’s news,
good or bad, say it. That motherfucking
disease is hurting someone I care about.
Next, say and believe the following “CANCER DOES NOT DEFINE ME.” She’s inundated, yes, but her family is not
defined by this disease, and it doesn’t define us as a community. Yes, it’s what brought us together right
here, right now, but not what will keep us together. We are not friends or friendly because of
Cancer. We are bound together because of
other interactions we may have had in the past as longtime friends, as family,
as members of the JCC or the greater Westfield area…the kid’s teams, or even
friends of friends. We are here because
of those connections, and those connections will endure even after Cancer is
gone.
Our job is both to let her and her family breathe, but to be
ever present and ready to do whatever seemingly small task we can to make her
life and her family’s lives easier. It’s
nothing we wouldn’t do before Cancer, and something we will continue to do
after Cancer.
She's so strong that she will say that we’ve done enough, and
mean it.
I’m telling you, we haven’t even begun.
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