I remember the moment like it was yesterday. I was 10 years old and playing up and down the hill in our backyard when Mom gave me the news in a whisper, "Grandpa has cancer." "What?" I thought. What is she talking about? I instantly thought my mother was making up a story. But, why would she make up a story about that? It became more real when Grandpa visited one day from South Africa. We were driving in the car and, affectionate, I put my head on his stomach. He laughed nervously in pain and asked me to get up. Grandpa died of prostate cancer in 1995. Nelson Mandela apparently visited him in hospital. It was a big deal. I was not there. I knew the moment I'd never see him again several months before. It was at a family function in Dallas. I sang to him, Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable."
One day when I was 17 years old, my mother and sister picked me up from high school. They had blotchy eyes. It was obvious they had been crying. I asked what was wrong. My sister told me her best friend died of cancer that day! My sister and her friend were only 7 years old. At first, I couldn’t believe it. This couldn’t be true. But, the look on my sister’s face said,”This is, not only true, my world is falling apart.” I was the older sister and didn’t know how to support her. Due to my fuzzy memory, I imagine I just stared out the window on the way home.
In high school I became attached to a special education teacher assistant. She really knew how to help me connect to my lessons in social studies and history. I became friends with her daughter who was a fellow classmate in my grade. Years later, after marriages, university, and life lessons, I learned that this teacher had stage four cancer. I did not know what to say. My heart went numb. I called her toward the end. I asked, "How are you doing?" She said something to the effect that she has good days and bad days. Then, soon after, she was gone. Her daughter, my friend, dealt with grief by getting busy and dealing with the family affairs. I tried to support her by listening. But, I knew part of me was not present.
Some time in 2011 or 2012 I met a woman and her boyfriend. She had cancer. This came around the time I opened my relationship. I actually was intimate with her. I remember thinking how delicate and tender she felt. I felt moved and honored to be with her. I was drawn to tears. A few years later we attended the Seattle Gay Pride Parade together. There is a picture of us smiling at the camera. Her cancer went into remission only to come back even worse. She died soon after it returned. We attended the next Pride Parade in her honor. We walked with Seattle's Cancer Care Alliance and another good friend who worked for the agency.
For a short time recently, I volunteered at the American Cancer Society in Campbell, California. I was the front desk receptionist. I greeted people coming in for their appointments. I answered phone calls. I got involved with various administrative projects. I became aware of their Relay for Life 24-hour walk event to increase awareness and funding for cancer research. During my time there as a volunteer, however, I felt like part of me was numb to the journeys of these people with cancer. I would think, “If I let myself have emotion, I will just get angry or sad. It is better to separate from the whole thing.” I know this is just a coping mechanism. It is probably not that healthy. I am reminded that today my own mother-in-law is slipping away from cancer. But, instead of getting support, she has isolated herself.
With all the examples of how this illness has directly affected the people I care about, I wonder how I can be more of an advocate and support. It seems that I have to first work through my own loss and grief before I can be a support to others. All I know is this: volunteering at an agency devoted to cancer research was not random. I felt drawn to be there. I wanted to find meaning amidst the loss.
No comments:
Post a Comment