C is for… cancer
Since I started this challenge with a contentious topic, I figured I might as well broach the subject of the big C. I mean, what could possibly go wrong? [peeks from behind the sofa]
Cancer. Even the word is so infused with emotions that it sits leaden and sharp in your mouth. Through its long history, it’s been imbued with the power to strike terror.
Cancer has been the ominous monster that lurks in my family’s darkened cupboards for as long as I can remember. It has reached its venomous fingers into too many generations. Cancer dug it’s claws into my father’s lungs twice, eating at them. It literally sucked the breath from him twenty years ago. Cancer has stolen more aunts, uncles and grandparents than I care to acknowledge.
More recently, cancer reared its heinous head to stare, cold eyed at one of my brothers. It’s been five years since his initial diagnosis, and he’s officially cancer free, but it’s taken its toll. As Siddhartha Mukherjee put it in The Emperor of All Maladies, he travelled to “the kingdom of the ill”, and one doesn’t return unchanged from that journey.
Cancer is unsparing in its reach too, unselfishly spreading its influence beyond the patient. Anyone in the general vicinity is infected by its pernicious ripples. The 3am coughing fits, the middle of the night carry-hustle of a weakened love one to the bathroom like a petulant child, the endless searches for food that can still be tasted after chemotherapy has ravaged tastebuds, are all the remit of the carers. It’s exhausting and demoralising. Self care is often hard to practice, and can feel oddly selfish. It’s a terrible bind.
For some of us being both a carer, and a patient are equally likely. The regularity of cancer’s appearance in my family history, keeps me glancing over my shoulder. Like some Hitchcock-esque villain, it follows me, casting its shadow over me periodically in the form of the quivering threat of mesothelioma embedded in double pneumonia, or uterine fibroids hidden in menorrhagia. It’s the terrifying imaginary friend, the devil hidden just beyond sight, the ever present threat of death’s cold hand.
That was so chilling!! I hope it never finds you!!
Thank you, Swathi. I hope so too.
I am the only member of my family to have been hit by the cancer bullet. I was fortunate and – like your brother – am official NED (No Evidence of Disease, as we call it in the UK) for 8 years now. I came to terms with it, because one can do no other. But to live in it’s shadow is not something I’ve experienced, nor something I would wish those I love to experience. The only way to do it, is to do what you have: face it, accept it, and then live your life fully. May you stay well & healthy.
Deb, oh my goodness. I’m relieved you are officially NED. May you continue to enjoy good health and live well! Thank you so much for stopping by and reading so thoughtfully.
It’s scary and with cancer I don’t know if there is anything that can be done to keep it at bay. 😦
It depends on the type of cancer, Parul. Some are preventable with vaccinations, the likelihood of others can be minimised with healthy lifestyle habits. But ultimately, when it’s your time, it’s your time. I believe that all you can do is live well in the meantime.
It is indeed the most dreaded and cruel illness es of our times….hoping and praying they someday there is a simple cure and easier treatments…wishing and praying for health and peace – to u and ur family
Thank you so much! I so appreciate your good wishes.
This brought back memories, none of them pleasant. And it’s so bone crushingly true. The pain, the agony spreads beyond the patient. Watching them waste away is something you should never have to see. Sending you hugs because I know that we need our tribe to see us through these bouts of pain. Every time.
Thank you, my friend! I’m so grateful to be surrounded by such wonderful friends ❤️
Thank you so much for this blog post. I work in care and have seen so many people taken by it’s various forms and it is never a forgiving thing. Sending you my very best wishes, and I hope that it never reaches you. x
Kai, thank you so much! I’m in awe of anyone who works in palliative care, or any health care. You are there when families cannot be, and some of us recognise and treasure that. Thank you for the work you do, and your big heart. x