To Each and Every Person Who Reaches Out to Me After Finding Out You Have Cancer

Since my diagnosis over three years ago, I have been very open about my situation.  I have shared my story as it unfolds for a few reasons.  The most selfish reason is that I need your support.  I would not have gotten through these past few years without the outpouring of love from my community, my village. The other reason is this:  I sincerely hope that it helps you help your loved one who has cancer, or any health issue.  By sharing what I'm going through, my hope is that you understand a little bit better what your loved one is going through.  If you have cancer, my hope is that by sharing what I'm going through, you will be better prepared with what to expect with your treatment, side effects, life as a cancer patient.

Since my diagnosis, a few people have reached out to me.  Some have put their loved ones in touch with me.  Some have contacted me directly.  I help the best that I can.  There's not much I can do financially or physically, but I can listen.  I can share my experiences in the hopes that it helps make your experience easier.

So, to the person who reaches out to me after your diagnosis of cancer:  There's so much I want to say to you.  There's so much I want to do for you.  I want to take it all away from you.   My heart breaks a little more with each and every message that begins with some form of "I have cancer."

To you I say:

I know that you're afraid.  I know that you were in shock after receiving the news.  You probably didn't hear the rest of what was being told to you, because your mind was frozen.  You probably don't remember leaving the doctor's office, or hanging up the phone. Hopefully you had someone else with you to lean on.

I know that it was incredibly difficult for you to tell people.  I could not voice the words for over a month.   My husband had to tell people, because I just could not.  He told our sons, and then the rest of our families.  After my sons, it was most difficult for me to let my sisters know.  You see, we had already lost a sister to cancer, and here I was telling them that they might lose another.

I know that the first few weeks were a scary whirlwind of more doctor appointments, medical tests, and what seemed like endless scheduling.

I know that you went through stages of emotions in the subsequent weeks.  You cried because you were so incredibly sad and scared.  Then you were angry.  "Why is this happening to me?!" you screamed at the universe.  When the anger died down, you went into fight mode.  You were ready to kick cancer's ass.  Now -- now I imagine you're just plain tired.

I know that when it comes time for routine tests, scanxiety sets in.  Intellectually, you know that it's just routine.  Intellectually, you know that there's probably nothing to worry about.  Emotionally, though, you're a complete wreck.  Anxiety is in full force.  "What if there's progression?"  Until the doctor calls with the test results, being on edge is normal.

I know that some family and friends either treat you differently, or have disappeared all together. You see, people are funny.  Some people just can't handle it.  So the way they deal with it is to disappear.  You'll find that people you thought would stick beside you walk away; but on the other hand, you'll be pleasantly surprised to find some people that you thought didn't care about you at all  really come through for you.  Some people will break your heart.  Some people will sew it back together.

I know that you desperately want to get back to the way you were "before cancer".  You hear it all the time, the term "new normal".  What is "normal" anyway?  I've come to realize that I'll never be the same as I was before cancer ... and my new normal?  That, my friends, is a continual work in progress.  I'll tell you, after my diagnosis I thought it would be surgery, chemo, done.  Man, was the joke on me.  That person I was before cancer?  Gone.

I know that treatment days are exhausting.  I know that the actual treatment only lasts a few hours, but it really takes all day.  You spend the hours before it mentally and physically preparing for it.  You pick out comfortable clothes to wear, and if you're having chemo, you make sure the neckline of your shirt is cut low enough so that the nurse is able to access your port.  You might have a special piece of jewelry that you wear.  (I wear the same necklace and earring set each time, in addition to my Wonder Woman ring and bracelet.  It may sound silly, but they give me strength.)  You make sure your bag is packed with things to pass the time -- maybe an iPad (for games, facebook, texting, reading), your phone, maybe a puzzle book, and in my case, an easy knitting pattern.  You make sure you  have snacks packed, and you'll bring your favorite blanket and pillow (even though the treatment center provides them, you like to take a special one of your own), and maybe even a stuffed animal to cuddle.  Once you get into the treatment chair, you have the anxiety that comes with the port access (or IV insertion).  I don't know about you, but I've always been deathly afraid of needles.  I've gotten used to them now, after having my port accessed at least every three weeks for over three years now, but it's still difficult.  Once you get hooked up and the meds are running, you try to read, or knit, or maybe do a puzzle on your iPad, but you end up falling asleep.  When it's done, you slowly walk to the car, and sleep on the way home (if someone drove you) or you fight to stay awake while you drive yourself home.  Once you're home, you spend the rest of the day resting on the couch in front of mindless television.  Treatment day is an exhausting day.

I know that you're afraid of what the future might hold.  Even though all of the doctors tell you that you're a success story and that you're doing well, you always have that nagging thought in the back of your head that says, "Are they telling me the truth?  Are they all hiding from me that I really have only a short time left?"  I know that you pray to stay on this earth until....  Until your youngest graduates from high school.  Until your children get married.  Until your children have children.  Until your grandchildren grow up.  Until....

I know what you're going through, to some extent.  I have been there.  I am there now.  I wish I could take it all away, because I know how it is.  Know that you are not alone.