All’s Well that Ends Well…

 It must be difficult to be the significant other of a cancer patient. The person with cancer must be consumed with herself: the discovery, the tests, the diagnosis, the surgeries, the treatments, the side effects. She probably puts on a great act around others in the workplace, in the family, wherever. Does she drop all of that as she inserts the key into the lock of her front door? Are all bets off? Does the person inside bear the brunt of the experience she’s going through? I don’t know; I don’t think so. I read all the chapters in all the cancer books that pertained to me…what expectations I should have following each of the experiences I endured, what side effects might be next, reactions and long-term effects of the drugs I’ve taken and those I continue to take. I didn’t read about how to be a significant other of a cancer patient. There were probably chapters on it; but that wasn’t my role, so I didn’t read them. Did the significant other read them? No. Did he try his best? Maybe. Was it enough? No. Is the past year of cancer treatment and survival the reason he’s gone? No. It’s so much more than that, but it’s not for recording here. You know that saying about “water under the bridge”? Well, it’s supposed to refer to something that’s done, over with, not worth mentioning or worrying about any longer. Once in my life I made a road trip to Denver. A fifth grade teacher, who had done that many times, commented that I’d be crossing the Continental Divide. Not wishing to expose my ignorance, I agreed and then researched what that was. It turns out that on this trip, the Continental Divide would be where the Colorado River changes the direction of its flow. On the west side of the Divide, the river flows toward the Pacific Ocean, while on the east side, it flows toward the Atlantic Ocean. What’s the connection here? The water under my bridge doesn’t have a straight outlet to either one of those; it just keeps circulating around and coming back to me. The water under the bridge, that fluid thing that needs to be put in the past, trivialized, and forgotten, just keeps on comin’ back. Well, I said that story wasn’t for here; and it’s not. If you are the cancer patient, you are consumed with yourself. You’d better be. You’re experiencing new horrors and scares at every turn. Your mortality is staring you in the face. You weren’t prepared for this, you don’t want it, and you pray it’s not a death sentence. You care about its impact on others, but there isn’t much you can do to change that. It’s your challenge. You get through the best you can; you just want your real life back, not the life you’re living with cancer. If you’re the significant other, just being there isn’t enough. Do your research. What’s your role? Can you know what the cancer patient’s going through? No. You can see it, you can hear it, you can even feel bad about it; but you don’t know. I’m not going to go through a litany of missed opportunities from my experience; I don’t want to conger them up or dwell on them, much less tell about them. I know this, and I can tell significant others this. Don’t minimize the procedures, the treatments, or the side effects. Do minimize the breast loss, the hair loss, and the fatigue. You need to say out loud the word love, even if that’s a word you’ve used sparingly in your life. Say it. Shout it. Whisper it. Mean it. You need to say: I love you. You need to say it loud, and say it clear. You need your acts to reflect it loudly and clearly. Say: I need you to get better. Say: There’s more to come for us. Say: There’s more for us to do. Say: It doesn’t matter that you’re missing a breast. Say: It doesn’t matter that you’re bald. Say: It doesn’t matter if you sleep day and night for two or three days after a treatment. Research your role. Read about what you can do. Join a support group or a counseling group. Get help. Is cancer the reason he’s gone? No. Was it the patient’s inability to deal with the significant other? No. Was it the significant other’s inability to deal with the cancer patient? No. It’s the water under the bridge.