“Hello?” Her voice resonated through the phone, while I struggled against the tightness in my throat.
“Hello,” she repeated, as I grappled for a word that could shift the gravity of the conversation, a word that might allow me to avoid the reality of the moment, the moment when she uttered the words, “It’s cancer.”
At just 35, she was vibrant, active—a mother to three young daughters and my older sister, Sarah. When she first called to mention the lump weeks earlier, I had barely registered the information, letting other mundane topics overshadow her concerns: discussions about the crib, our mother’s upcoming visit, and the unpredictable weather. Now, here we were again, on the phone, facing the same devastating news.
“What did the doctor say?” I finally managed to ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“It’s cancer,” she replied.
“How? What does that mean?” All I could muster was disbelief. As someone who had built her life around words—teaching and writing—I found myself utterly speechless. Words had deserted me, leaving a hollow silence in their wake. After we hung up, I returned to my task of chopping vegetables, my own pregnancy preventing me from rushing to her side. I lived on the Oregon Coast; she was far away in the Deep South. Our childhood in Chicago felt a world away from our current realities.
In the days that followed, I said nothing to my husband. I was unable to voice the horror of her diagnosis, and I struggled to explain it to friends and family. That night, I awoke repeatedly, haunted by her words and the implications they carried: grief, fear, uncertainty. My heart ached for her little girls, all under the age of five. I desperately searched for words that could offer even a glimmer of hope.
The next day, I called her again, still at a loss for what to say. She was searching for actionable words, but all I had were my own questions and fears that I swallowed down.
She insisted we all educate ourselves—diets, vitamins, treatments, surgeries. We complied, but nothing we discovered seemed sufficient; nothing we said could provide solace.
In subsequent months, our conversations shifted to her experiences with lumpectomy and radiation. Her husband and daughters accompanied her to the medical center, where the girls colored pictures in a waiting room adorned with artificial flowers and faded upholstery. Meanwhile, I nursed my newborn son, feeling the distance between us grow.
After her treatments, she was declared cancer-free, but the threat of recurrence loomed large. She eliminated sugar from her diet and adopted a stringent exercise regimen, losing weight rapidly. She dove deep into online breast cancer forums, relaying the frightening stories she encountered—tales of other young mothers whose cancer returned after years. I loathed those forums; the fear they instilled overshadowed any comfort they might provide. I wished she remained unaware of that dread.
“I’m having them both removed,” she announced during one call. “I need you to check out these websites and tell me what you think.” I was taken aback. Words failed me again. The notion of undergoing such a drastic procedure made me nauseated.
Despite my reluctance, I couldn’t let her face it alone. We spent hours on the phone, each in front of our screens, examining pictures of reconstructed breasts. I recognized this decision was vital for her peace of mind. I wouldn’t want to live with the constant shadow of uncertainty either. The anguish of anticipation seemed far worse than the physical pain of surgery.
She consulted several breast reconstruction specialists, weighed her options, and made a choice. For three weeks, she moved away from her daughters and husband, meeting our mother in Atlanta for recovery. I sent her magazines and a card with words that felt inadequate.
In the early days post-surgery, she was immobilized, waking frequently from pain. She couldn’t lift her arms or wash her own hair, unable to hold her daughters without discomfort. Years later, she still experiences pain, yet she has distanced herself from those survivor websites. Though she will always be a survivor, she has chosen to live beyond that label.
The initial shock of “It’s cancer” left us all pondering how life would unfold without her. We were unaware that survival was even a possibility; our understanding of cancer was steeped in mortality. During my first mammogram, I had to recount my family history, and when the nurse inquired if my sister had passed away, I felt a wave of nausea.
“No, she is alive and thriving,” I responded, fighting the emotions welling within me. Sarah has navigated through this nightmare, teaching us that sometimes, in the absence of words, simply being present is enough.
In times where words may fail, being there for a loved one can offer the greatest comfort. If you’re considering expanding your family, you might find resources on home insemination to be helpful. Visit Make a Mom for insights on at-home insemination kits, or check out their impregnator kit for more information. For further guidance on donor insemination, American Pregnancy is an excellent resource.
Summary
This article reflects on the emotional turmoil of supporting a loved one diagnosed with cancer, emphasizing the need for presence over words in times of crisis. It recounts the personal journey of navigating fear, uncertainty, and the enduring bond of family amidst illness.
Keyphrase: Supporting a loved one with cancer
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