Monday, July 7, 2014

Silence Is Not Golden When a Friend's Cancer Returns

Is there anything sadder than hearing that someone's cancer has returned? Yes. It's hearing that family and friends pulled away at a time when support for someone you care about is most critical.

A young woman -- delightful, sweet, with the infectious optimism of Pollyanna in an adult body, recently announced her cancer is back, bigger and meaner than ever. She's someone who has celebrated milestones, shared her thoughts and feelings on a number of subjects, and encouraged everyone to make the world a better place to be. There's not a mean bone in her body, but there is cancer.

My first thought on hearing the news was, "^%$#@! This is so unfair!" After all, she has young kids who need her. She has a husband and a history of overcoming obstacles. She has family and friends who adore her. She has so many interrupted hopes and dreams she put on hold while tackling this disease. Now what happens?

Throughout the July 4th weekend, her plight stayed on my mind. Why? Because I wished I had the power to do something positive to make a difference in her life. Too many good people are swept up in the cancer struggle; it saddens me when the journey goes from uphill to downhill in the blink of an eye.

It means shifting gears for me, emotionally and physically. It means I must accept that whatever course her cancer takes. I will figure out a way to let her know she matters, even when I feel awkward and uncomfortable, even when my words seem inadequate.

But more importantly, her news reminded me of my mother's struggle -- not so much over the disease and treatment, but the reactions of people she thought cared about her. She found out the hard way that all her efforts over the years to support friends and family didn't amount to a hill of beans when she most needed a kind word, a cheerful thought, or even just a friendly shoulder to cry on.

Was it because people didn't care? I don't think so. I think it's because we have this reluctance as human beings to admit we are uncomfortable when someone is experiencing serious illness. We want to play ostrich and bury our heads in the sand until the moment, or the person, passes. But that's all about us, isn't it? It's about making ourselves feel, or not feel, for someone we care about.

Real support for cancer patients means accepting that things don't always go well during cancer management. Years ago, when I worked with hospitalized children, I often saw the same faces come through the doors of the pediatric ward over and over again. Back then, it was normal for kids with most kinds of cancer to die within months -- there was no time for hope to blossom, nor a cure to magically appear. It was what it was for decades, until slowly and surely, doctors began to understand the complexity of the different types of cancer and learned to impact its control on the body.

Nowadays, more people manage their disease over time. The years go on while the cancer remains in remission or occasionally pop up, only to be knocked down again by this new treatment or that one. People get back to living their lives, until the day that horrible blow fells them once more and the prognosis is not optimistic. It can feel like failure when cancer comes back. It means there is something we have little control over in our lives, a beast that can ruin everything.

Maybe that fear of feeling helpless is what drives many of us to stay silent, to ignore the bad news, to pull away. Maybe we fear being emotionally overwhelmed by the reality that someone we love is in dire need and we don't have the tools to rebuild that lovely, lovely life.

Maybe we need to accept that this isn't about us at all. It's about someone who matters. What does she need from us that we can give?

Even if we can't make someone better, we can make her feel better. My mother was lonely after many of her friends, and even some relatives, pulled away from her. She did, however, receive glorious support from very loyal people. There were phone calls just to say hi, to let my mother talk about what mattered to her. There were notes to say, "Remember that time we went...." There were photographs that arrived in the mail, potted plants that were delivered to the door, and even people who just volunteered to sit with my mother. The brave ones in her circle reached out and made the effort, not because they were brave, but because they put her needs ahead of their own need for comfort. Letting go of our own fears and emotional pain is the way to become brave. We're too busy thinking about someone else's needs to think about our own desire to protect our hearts from sorrow.

We can't make someone better, but we can always figure out a way to make her feel better. Sometimes it's just knowing that she matters to us as a human being. We are still aware, and grateful, she's with us. We are still remembering the way she made us think about this or laugh about that. We want the best for her because she's been a ray of sunshine on a drizzly day. It's really all about her.

Personal power isn't about fixing people. Personal power isn't something we wield like a sword and then we move on to the next triumph. It's about connecting with the human heart and saying, "I feel small because I can't do much, but I want you to know I care."

The real power we hold as human beings isn't in the ability to slay dragons. It is in the ability to love, whether it's our immediate families or our extended circles. We love and that is the unification of the human experience, the coming together of the community in a positive way. We should celebrate our ability to care, even when our hearts are breaking for someone we love. We should take that step and reach out that hand. No one with cancer should ever look to us and find us hiding in the darkness, running away because we're scared. Hearts are far more resilient than we know, but only when they are filled with love, hope, faith, and charity.

Garth Brooks sang a lovely song that succinctly sums up my feelings about embracing life:

"And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end, the way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I'd have had to miss the dance...."

From "The Dance" by Tony Arata