The Quiet Death

It's funny. The second you have cancer, you are bombarded with handouts, notebooks, doctors notes, internet research, all filled with the physical symptoms, signs, and outcomes of the cancer. They tell you what your body will do, what it won't do, what to expect, and numerous other physical dilemmas. There is, however, one thing they don't tell you. They don't talk about the quiet and slow painful death of your social life. There is nothing to prepare you for the way that people will now look at you, talk to you, talk ABOUT you-it's all completely different.

Mom says in some ways, it's like she has already died. Or that she walks around with a big "C" on her chest. When a lot people look at her now, there's a new element added to their glances-the look of pity. The look of sympathy. The first question (and of course, people have every right to ask) is, "How are you feeling?". Instead of grandson talk, or chit chat, conversations involve doctors opinions, quick health updates in a nutshell, or how tired she might be feeling.

Mom is surrounded by love and support, but she's never felt more lonely. There are plenty of phone calls, but from doctors. No longer do invitations come to just "hang out", or phone calls just to "shoot the breeze".

Mom isn't dead, she just has cancer. She still likes to go out to eat, she still likes to go shopping, she still likes to play games or go swimming. Yes, she gets tired, but Mom knows when to take a break, or if she's having a bad day, she'll easily reschedule. Cancer does not define my mother. My Mom is an amazing woman filled with joy, who just happens to also have cancer. Yes, she does get chemo once a week, but even that can be made into a social outing. A friend sitting with her, playing cards, or talking and hanging out? Cancer calls for creativity, not quiet side stepping.

That's not to say that the cards or prayers aren't valued. They are an amazing source of strength, and lets us know the giant army that stands behind my Mom, and we are grateful for each and every one.

Right now, Mom is alive. She is not in a hospital bed surrounded by wires, she's not confined to a chair. And she's not dead. She is fighting, but at the same time trying to live as normal a life as possible. The greatest gift you could give to her is to give her chances to live that life. Yes, we do realize everything is different now, and our lives will never be the same. Yes, we fully understand that people will ask us questions about how Mom is no matter where we go, and we are always ok with letting you know what's going on, because we know your heart is in the right place.

But once in awhile, it might be really nice to ask Mom instead what kind of snowball she'd like to get when you meet her at the stand in 20 minutes.