[2022-05-12] You are not alone
Throughout my cancer journey, I have taken comfort in knowing that I am not alone—that others have faced the same or similar circumstances, that they have taken comparable decisions, and that they have overcome related challenges. Sometimes, someone will reach out to me and say, "Me too!" Other times, I'll be the one saying, "I get it. I've been there as well."
Both situations arose today. One woman responded to Wednesday's post, Seize the day, with a story of her own:
FWIW, you are definitely not alone. Eleven years ago, I finished my radiation treatments in December and had my port removed in January. In February, I was told that my thyroid was no longer functioning and that I would need meds for this for the rest of my life.
Even then, I knew that compared to cancer, a thyroid issue was not a big deal. But to me, it was as though my body had just given me a giant FU. I cried. A lot.
I was eventually able to put this back into proper perspective, but I had a harder time dealing [with] this little issue than I had with everything that had come before. I went through the same process of figuring out what the rest of my life would be like.
Like you, I decided that I needed to live every day. I accepted that my cancer would eventually return but decided that I would do everything I could to delay that until cancer could be treated [with] the simple prescription of a pill.
Since then, I have been able to go forward, live my life, travel, take on new challenges at work, volunteer, support family members in need, and enjoy everything with which I have been gifted. Carpe diem.
It might seem to other people that, once you've faced cancer, a less-serious health issue would feel like a cake walk. But it didn't for me and clearly it didn't for the woman who shared her story with me today. With potentially (inevitably?) more health concerns on the horizon, a part of me wants to shout, "Enough already!" and to ask (to whom, I'm not sure), "Haven't I gone through enough?" But, of course, neither life nor health works that way.
Perhaps it's a question of expectations. If I tell myself, "I just need to get through this treatment for cancer, and then I'll be home free," I'll be disappointed when something else pops up—another cancer, for example, or an issue with my gallbladder. I'm not sure whether the alternative—anticipating and worrying about another problem—is any better. The only thing that helps me is to tell myself, "I can get through this too."
The second exchange of experience today was with someone who responded to Thursday's post, In your words: living with grief. A woman shared a heartwarming story about a different type of grief:
Thank you for sharing this post, Jennifer. For me, grief is not related to the death of a loved one, but is very much tied to raising a typical, healthy child. However naïve that expectation was, I was woefully unprepared to take on autism in all its forms. This is not to say, I don’t love my son—I love him with every fibre of my being. The hurdles at the beginning of his diagnosis were soul-crushing, but over time and with support, it has been a beautiful journey of hope and growth. The amazing miracle is it is my husband and I who have learned that raising an autistic child brings us hope, patience and a life we would not change, for the world. My grief has become quite simply, a joy that is indescribable with words, only tears of gratitude and joy.
I replied: "What a beautiful testimony to your child. I am certain that he brings you great joy. I understand your feeling grief for the life you thought you would have. Both my children were diagnosed with neurodiverse disorders as children. Thank you for sharing this." She responded:
It is exactly that: a life we thought we would have. But, I believe that if I could go back and change it…I would not. Hard to explain. It must have been challenging with the diagnosis of neurodiverse disorders in your children.
I admitted: "Challenging at the time, yes, but not with a little distance from the diagnosis and perspective. Both my kids have exceeded everyone's expectations, and that makes me very proud."
What my friend grieved in relation to her child and I grieved in relation to my cancer are a loss of the life we thought we would have. When we think about our futures, we often imagine the best case scenario: a long relationship with a loving spouse, healthy children, a satisfying job with a respectful boss, good health that takes us well beyond retirement. When this picture doesn't materialize, it can be devastating. It can feel like we're the only ones not living a "normal" life.
That's where receiving confirmation that we are not alone is so beneficial. Knowing that another woman who went through cancer cried when diagnosed with a new health issue makes me feel less alone. And knowing that my children went on to become successful adults, notwithstanding their childhood diagnoses, no doubt gives the woman parenting a child with autism some comfort.
One of the best ways to learn if someone else has gone through the same thing you're now facing is to be vulnerable first, to reach out to others with whom you feel comfortable and share your story. You will likely hear back—as a friend of mine did when she talked about her experience with anxiety—"me too," or "not me, but my sister" or "not that exactly, but this." You can, of course, read books, listen to podcasts and watch shows—among other things—to find stories like yours. However, in my experience, there's nothing quite like sharing your story with another person and hearing theirs in return.
