Category Archives: Terminal Cancer, Day by Day

Terminal Cancer, Day by Day

Mushrooms and Hemp Oil and Prayer — oh my!

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Seth Godin has blogged about how we can emotionally ignore ill-informed critics by giving them the same leeway as we would to a toddler. I think this same approach could assuage my fury when well-intentioned friends/family/acquaintances/strangers advise my husband to cure his cancer with oregano oil, marijuana and other tomfoolery.

(I would have posted this on Facebook, but some of my Facebook friends are among the offenders.)

My instinctual reaction, when yet another person corners my sweetie into an uncomfortable conversation about a miracle cure, is to break their nose, then offer the choice of a trip to the hospital or a spit poultice.

Why do some people think they have more expertise on cancer cures then the people who actually live with the disease? Which of us is meeting with oncologists and other cancer experts regularly? Which of us is more motivated to ask questions about potential cures? It seems obvious to me that the person dying from the disease will inevitably be more studied up on options than the random person who saw a poorly-sourced link their second cousin posted on Facebook.

I resist breaking noses because I understand that these ill-informed, often ridiculous suggestions for treatment are made with sympathy and sometimes love. We all want to help others in crisis. We want sick people to get better and live. There is that tiny (tiny!!!!) chance that the news clip we saw last week mentioned a treatment that the sick person hasn’t yet tried, and which might be exactly the thing that cures them.

Here’s my suggestion for anyone who wants to propose a “solution” to a sick person (or, in fact, to anyone in any life circumstance): ask if the person would like to hear any suggestions.

“I’m so sorry to hear that you’re not well. Would you like me to tell you about how my uncle survived a similar form of cancer? No? Okay.”

The most respectful “helpers”, in our experience so far, have been the religious people. I’ve been asked numerous times by churchgoing folks if they may pray for my husband. We aren’t religious (or even spiritual) but we always say yes. One couple asked for permission to “lay hands” on my sweetie, and when he said yes they stood and prayed on the spot, reaching to heaven for a healthy kidney to come down from the sky. He felt very uncomfortable, but it made for a great story and it was heartwarming to see how much these people cared.

Terminal Cancer, Day by Day

Letting It Out

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I realized this week that I’ve been holding in my grief a bit too tightly. My shoulders and back were starting to ache, and there was this massive pressure of compressed grief coming from my heart. It is exhausting trying to hold it in all the time.

When I go grocery shopping (for example) I run into up to five different people who know what is happening to my family and who ask how we’re doing. This is the blessing and curse of living in a smallish town and being open about Brock’s cancer diagnosis. I can’t cry on five shoulders within 30 minutes — I’d be a wreck and end up never leaving our house — so I put on my comfortable Dealing With The Public face and smile while providing truthful, unhappy updates. My self-imposed role has always been to manage other people’s feelings and I continue to do this now.

Brock’s health is deteriorating rapidly — much more quickly than either of us expected — and the truth is that I am sad about it all. There’s no need to hide it. It’s my habit to Put On A Brave Face and smile through conflict, but this is a situation that has absolutely no silver lining and no one expects me to smile. If anything, they are very confused that I’m able to discuss it all with them without sobbing.

So earlier this week I decided to let the dam crack a bit. I intentionally watched Still Alice on Netflix: a movie about a woman with early onset Alzheimer’s. It’s very sad and I let myself cry. I felt myself relax a little bit into our own sadness, this daily grief of living with terminal cancer.

A few days later I watched some of Brock’s farm machines be sold and loaded onto the buyer’s trailer. Brock had longed for these machines for years, researched and designed and finally custom-built them. We never really got to use them to their full capacity before his cancer diagnosis, and to see them be carried away — to see that tangible reminder of the death of his vision, that incredible waste — made me so sad. This time, instead of smothering the grief, I let myself cry.

It feels very, very good to finally let myself be sad.