No Good Cancer

Step up, shut up.

Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash

There is no good kind of cancer.

The news is 100% not good. Ever. A trainwreck to one’s life plans. An ocean of uncertainty.

This news is not my own. I’m part of a small chorus of people around a friend who will be receiving news in the tortuous drip, drip, drip of diagnosis, prognosis, surgery, treatment and again, prognosis.

My role is supporting, listening and hopefully “not saying stupid shit,” as my friend Heat says about some well-intended folks. ‘Stupid shit’ is defined as helpful/ not helpful advice and perspectives, oversharing and under-listening and not ‘reading the room’. She has created a brilliant website and a deck of cards dedicated to this very topic: How Not to Say Dumb Sh*t to Someone Dealing with Cancer.

Am I up to this role? Who cares? This isn’t about me. My friend isn’t up to having cancer either. My fear, anxiety, and self-talk have to take a backseat to what she is going through. Am I up to not saying or doing the wrong thing? I sincerely hope so.

My friend recently spoke about trying running when she’s feeling better. I can focus on that and help her to do so. I can hold space for her, or her hair back, when the chemo sickness starts.

I will go for a run this morning and think of her and so many others unable to do this simple thing. In the coming months, she will be at the local cancer hospital for appointments and treatments. I pass this hospital on my longer runs. I thought about a poignant moment I experienced one day when training for my half-marathon last year.

I struggled to keep going near the halfway point of a long run. As I passed the cancer hospital, I noticed two women in wheelchairs parked on the sidewalk outside. One of the women said, “I wish I could do that.” I choked up, waved, and quickened my step to finish my run without further complaint. I remind myself that I get to do this when so many can’t.

These hospitals are beacons I wish we didn’t have to acknowledge sometimes. They remind me of my fragility. Some people go in, never come out, or are forever changed. Some people are made whole again, but the experience is profound.

And so, I must do whatever is necessary to help lift this person through their darkest days. As too many of my friends can attest, you are forever changed. The experience is profound for all involved.

My fears and discomfort be damned.

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez 🇨🇦 on Unsplash

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What would you share with someone in the caregiver circle about how to best show up for their loved one?