I thought I was a tough cookie who coped with what life threw at me pretty well, so it was a surprise that the after that initial reaction, I was plunged into a melancholia remembering how it was twelve years ago when I too, got a cancer diagnosis.
My dear friend would be thrown into a strange, scary world where she would have to muster her courage from the very depths of her being. She will have to revisit her pain threshold, learn new medical vocabulary, be strong for her children, not let her parents and friends see how terrified she is and most of all, keep her deepest, darkest fears tucked away inside her for fear that if she lets them surface she will crumble and not be able to navigate to the end of the road.
In the words of the late, but very inspirational, Randy Pausch ‘ We cannot change the cards we are dealt, just how we play the hand.' Each of us has a choice and as much as others want to help take some of the burden from our shoulders, they do not stand in our shoes and face what we face.
Having a diagnosis of cancer made me evaluate what was important to me. It didn’t come immediately as I was numb and only existing on a day to day basis as the only way I could get through. No, the realisation came gradually. What was most important to me? If I died, what was the thing that would tear my heart to pieces? Losing those who were dear to me was my answer and I suspect the same for most of you. At the time my son was only 18 months old. He would have no memory of me, nor would I be able to be an integral part in shaping him into the man I wanted him to become. Then why wasn’t I making more of the time that I did have with them? After that, prioritising became easier. I tried not to waste time worrying about trivialities. Those people who I had tolerated to ‘be nice’ could slip to the end of the list. Achievements that seemed so important before just weren’t. Time was what I wanted and time was the one thing that was threatened. It’s my birthday next week. No longer do I worry about getting older. Every birthday is a bonus. How lucky am I to have made it to this age?
In times of greatest grief I’ve always needed to be outside, preferable standing on the top of a hill so that I can see the world unfold before me. We are so insignificant in this vast world. So fragile yet insignificant. The bluebells will still bloom each year whether I’m there to see them or not.
So what could I do to help my friend? What am I good at? Yes, I can supply meals, chauffeur children and be there for her but how could I help her in those dark moments? What am I good at? I write. That’s what I could do for her.
The harshest thing said to me during my cancer treatment was by a nurse who was injecting me at the time. She chastised me for sobbing in front of her and my children. My sister had just died from her cancer and my grief had overwhelmed me. How strong did I have to be to evoke a little sympathy in the woman? Alternatively, one of the kindest and uplifting moments was, in one of my darkest hours (tears pouring down my face,) a letter from a friend whilst I was caring for my dying mother. She was praising me for what I was doing. She was confirming what I knew in my heart was the right thing to do. My mother was spending her last days being cared for in my daffodil yellow, dining room which we had adapted to accommodate her. My siblings and I were giving her our time and that was the thing that she didn’t have much more of. But my friend recognised the great stress we were under and was affirming that we were doing our very best for her and giving her the greatest gift we could. To surround her with the people who loved her the most. It gave much comfort.
Yesterday I again needed to go outside. A walk with the dogs while I processed this latest sad news. I needed to decide on my strategy. Both to restore my equilibrium and decide on what I could say to my friend to give her a moment of comfort on her journey. I always forget to lift my head upwards as I walk as I’m watching where to place my feet. If I looked up and forwards, I could see the views that were so beautiful, the sun that was shining and the bluebells that were about to bloom. So that is what I must write to her to give her hope – I can't guarantee her more time but I must remind her to lift her head upwards.
Teresa x