plan b

I just found out that a family member has cancer. I will not – ever – name names or relationships here, out of respect for privacy. This blog is about me and my journey, even though that journey has now – quite horrifically – dovetailed with someone else who is close to me.

Almost exactly a year ago, Steve and I were just starting our own struggle with my cancer. I imagine what I’m feeling now is some version of what he felt then: shock, sorrow, helplessness, anger. The unfairness of this situation feels profound.

I also cannot decide if I am reassured by my own experiences, or if my knowledge makes me feel more upset.  Every cancer patient’s path is so different, not just the diagnosis or outcome but the terrain in between. I also remember feeling numb and partly deaf at the beginning, when the white noise in my head just drowned out anything anyone said to me. Whatever I say now won’t register, so it can’t possibly help.

But … I feel, very strongly, that the coda to any survivor’s journey with cancer has got to be helping others somehow. The final blow to the disease is to say you beat it, that it did not beat you, and to stand tall before others as tangible proof of that fact.

Swallowing back your fears about relapse, stifling that little voice that worries about every unusual sensation, changing the subject or never speaking of it again – none of those behaviors is magic against recurrence. And frankly, I would not have come through the experience of treatment and recovery without conversations with other survivors, at moments that turned out to be crucial. Who am I to deny others my thoughts, my advice, my realizations, my discoveries – if I’m able, if they ask, if there’s some nugget of solace that might make all the difference?

I just wish, with all my heart, that my original assumption was intact: that I was meant to screw up my courage and volunteer on Beth Israel’s chemo ward, to help cancer patients I don’t know. Instead, right now, it feels as if the universe has a different plan in mind.