Their Light

After He Said Cancer | A Memoir

It was raining.

Unlike the usual Seattle rain showers that felt like a refreshing mist, these raindrops were large, cold, and drenching. I zipped up my rain jacket and pulled the hood over my head before even getting out of the car.

I need a circle of friends to support me, I told him. I can’t keep this secret any longer.

He had been reluctant for me to tell anyone, so I had obliged. But I was breaking, and my own self-care had to enter the conversation.

I don’t want you to suffer. Go ahead and tell them, he said, meaning my closest friends.

Part of me dreaded telling them, because I knew the tears would come and as I was tired of crying. But their compassionate faces and eyes would stare straight through my broken self. I would cry and it would just have to be OK.

I was meeting three friends, who were mothers of my daughters’ classmates. Kindhearted and full of love for their daughters, we had bonded over shared parenting experiences for many years.

I don’t remember everything about the walk, except there was a long stretch where I was walking, talking, and crying. It was a one-way conversation with me unloading a monologue of pain and the details of his testing, prognosis, and plan for chemo and radiation. I mixed facts and fears. Sometimes, all in the same sentence. Perhaps, I only told them about my fears.

Every now and then, someone asked a question with some trepidation. Mostly, they listened.

My chest was hurting. I needed to stop and catch my breath from time to time. Since his diagnosis, I had developed pain with breathing. It felt like something was constricting my chest and making it impossible to take a deep breath.

Sometimes, I wondered if something was medically wrong with my lungs, and whether I might have some terrible disease that had yet to be diagnosed. Most of the time, I knew it was the grief placing my chest in a vise grip on my chest and turning the screw.

I had run out of things to say, so we walked in silence. My terror wasn’t necessarily better, but I began to feel less alone. For a moment, I could feel their love, and I was grateful.

Never had I been so afraid of the future. The more I thought about what might come next, the more I imagined the inevitable news that his cancer had metastasized. In truth, we had no idea what would happen next, how he would react to the chemotherapy, and whether the treatments would work at all. The future was unknown, and terrifying.

My friend confided that she and another mom had been trying to come up with ways to support our family. Would a meal train help? Should they send flowers? What was the right response to be most helpful?

I looked up, teary-eyed, and couldn’t respond. I had no answer for her. Inside my head, I knew but couldn’t say the words.

The right response was to be here with me, in this moment. To walk with me in the cold rain and listen was the only thing I needed. I could see they were showing up in an uncomfortable place and sending me love. That was all I needed.

Their light was overwhelming.

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If you would like to read other posts, here are a few:

1. How It Began. This story is the origins of my Substack and tells the story of the first moment when we learned of my husband’s breast cancer diagnosis. https://www.afterhesaidcancer.com/p/how-it-began

2. Extremes. The extremes of poverty give me perspective on my grief.

   https://www.afterhesaidcancer.com/p/extremes

3. Canary in a Coalmine. https://www.afterhesaidcancer.com/p/canary-in-a-coalmine

4. That Ribbon. https://www.afterhesaidcancer.com/p/that-ribbon

5. The Day He Nearly Died. https://www.afterhesaidcancer.com/p/the-day-he-nearly-died

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