Somehow this afternoon, I ended up in an Alice in Wonderland style Instagram rabbit hole. The absolute worst possible way to waste time. I ended up on a friend of a friend of a friend’s sister’s friend’s page. You know when that happens, right?
I don’t know this woman from Eve, but her most recent photo was her holding a tiny newborn baby. Sweet and innocent. Then my eyes bounced up to her and I noticed her giant headscarf. I got nervous. My eyes slid over to the caption where she shared the name of her beautiful baby, and the news of her recent cancer diagnosis.
4 months ago, had I seen this post, it would be sad, and mostly meaningless to me. Sure, I would feel empathy, but only for a moment because I’d never been deeply, personally affected by this type of diagnosis. I would move on quickly and hope that I wouldn’t have to revisit this thought anytime soon.
But today, everything is different. This post triggered me. The word cancer is a new, 2021 addition, to a list of trigger words on my radar. Isn’t it strange how they creep up, seemingly out of nowhere? Like a snake in the grass, slithering and hissing, making everyone dance on their toes in avoidance.
On January 27th, my younger brother was diagnosed with leukemia, which is easily the scariest word in the English language. In the blink of an eye, my world was turned upside down and my understanding of the fragility of life was cemented by a very harsh reality.
My family and I packed up our things for a temporary move out to LA to help support him in what little way we could. Bringing soup, going for a walk, making fun of ourselves to try and make him laugh. 1/3 of our move was to help my parents mentally, 1/3 was to help my brother physically, and 1/3 was to convince ourselves that there was something, anything, absolutely anything we could do to take away the challenge that lay ahead.
I’ve had trouble figuring out how or if or when I wanted to share this news “publicly.” I am usually an open book, and I love nothing more than spilling the insides of my brain on the internet, but this news left me speechless for a long time.
Part of the reason I didn’t say anything was to respect my brother’s privacy. Another reason was because I felt depressed, and didn’t really feel like explaining the story and diagnosis to anyone outside my innermost circle. Every time I would open my mouth to talk about my brother, I would cry. I couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t verbalize the words that would in fact actualize the painful reality that he was sick. That he needed to undergo intense chemotherapy. That he was 24 and forced to check into a hospital for 28 days where no visitors were allowed because of COVID. I could not listen to anyone tell me that he would be fine and he would make it through.
I didn’t have the capacity to comfort anyone, and I wondered how this could happen to me. In this hazy state, I also wondered how I ever believed that I had any sort of life experience. I had lived a perfectly blissful life for 28 years. A charmed life full of family vacations, wedding planning, best friends, job offers. I “had it all,” whatever that stupid term meant. I had never known the pain of someone’s good health being robbed in the middle of the night. I had never been forced to watch my mother sob. I had lived a very charmed life. And now, I was being taught how in one little instant, in one teeny tiny instant, in a millisecond, everything in your world can shatter into one million pieces.
I don’t know why today is the day I chose to share this information. Maybe because I met an old friend for lunch, and the 2 minutes we talked about my brother, I choked up again. What can I say? What can anyone possibly say about the cruelty that is cancer? I try to get through the words. I tell her that he’s getting better. I try not to focus on the fact that his favorite things: climbing, surfing, and running were taken from him. For absolutely no good reason. Just like that.
In the midst of sadness, there are good days. There is an insane amount of beautiful greenery, flowers, cacti, and lush floral life around my over-priced-short-term-rental-home in Los Angeles. There is still laughter from my daughter, whose head on my shoulder takes away all the pain in the world. There are best friends who travel thousands of miles to eat takeout on the couch with you. There are sisters-in-law who send chocolate. There are friends who send snacks and promises of brighter days soon to come. There are still movies to absorb myself in, and there is still work to be done. There are pizza nights with my family, picnics in the park. There are designer shoes on sale (those always bring me a moment of relief) and there is beautiful jewelry to drool over. There are smiles in the thick of the heaviness. There is a light at the end of the tunnel.
There are daily and weekly status updates, promises of recovery, prayers from around the world, and there is a pause in life as I knew it. And I’m learning to let that be okay.
Jane, I understand you so well. Alex, Igor and I will pray every day for Eric’s recovery🙏 Everything will be all right with him, I strongly believe so. There are unimaginable stories of recovery, your brother will be one of them, just believe in it!!
Sigh. Oh Jane.
Having been in a similar situation, I know that well-meaning words of reassurance mean nothing to someone going through a personal hell like this. So I don't offer you any, although I imagine you know I'd try to say something warm, yet tart and sarcastic. Instead, I just say that I'm glad that you have the strength of family and friends around you during this difficult time to lean on, joke around with and share uncertainties with. May their presence continue to uphold you during this journey.