Nothing prepares you to hear that your parent has cancer, absolutely nothing. You can never know how you will react until you actually experience it – and hopefully you will never find out.
This past year, juggling the life of a full time student with the most challenging courses of my academic career while my mom was fighting cancer was the single most difficult thing I have ever done.
This is an open letter to anyone who can relate to my story – though you may not open up about it often, I know you're out there.
This is probably the most difficult letter I've ever written, and it's not even addressed to a single individual…I don't have a clue where to even start.
I wish I was there to hug you, to be there when you cry, to listen to you, to endure the silence with you, to give you someone to yell at, to tell you that I know how unique your situation is, to get you dinner while you're on the phone with your parent, to help encourage you to get up and go to class, to remind you that it's okay to feel and fall apart.
To be there because I've been there.
To validate everything that you're feeling – from the anger, the frustration, the doubt, the fear, the confusion, the numbness, the isolation, the worry, the depression – I've been there.
I've experienced the mood swings over things that you would never normally be moody about.
I've broken down in tears over the smallest things and then broken down over feeling irrational.
I've had to act like I was doing "good" or "fine" or "well" when I was anything but those things.
I've had to listen to others sharing their feelings and stories about something that seems so minor, and wanting to just scream at them for not knowing what actually matters.
I've felt the despair of starting a new job, having midterms, and not being able to go home before a first treatment to help out, to be just there, to get in those extra hugs that you so desperately miss.
I've felt how cold a dorm room can feel at 2 a.m, 3 a.m,. 4 a.m. when sleep just isn't an option.
I've felt the overwhelming desire to have someone to listen, and the simultaneous urge to fight that desire to avoid being treated differently.
I know that you don't believe me right now when I say that I've been there. No one could really understand what you're going through, because if they did you would know it. You know that logically other people experience similar things, but you never see it. How do they function with so much going on? How are they not struggling? How are they not falling apart?
They are – they're actors just like you are.
They put on a brave face on the way to class.
They go numb long enough to take accurate notes in class and even put on a smile when they see friends out and about around campus.
They go through the motions from class to the dining hall to meetings to work because it's the only sense of normalcy they have.
They wish just as desperately as you do that they did not have to be there, that they were home. At the same time, they've a tad bit thankful for the need to be at school, to avoid seeing the daily hell that their parent is going through – and feeling incredibly guilty for such a selfish thought.
However, at the end of the day, they go back to their rooms and fall apart just like you do.
You've mastered a lot of skills over this time period – I know because I now possess the same skill set.
You've mastered the silent cry, because you want to appear strong to roommates and hallmates. The last thing that you want is for them to ask if you are okay, because you are absolutely not, and you do all in your power to hide that from them.
You have the fake smile and happy tone down to a science. No one would ever think that you were even worried about midterms, let alone more, after talking with you.
You're best at this when talking on the phone with your parent and family. You need to appear strong, so you do while your heart is breaking during each and every conversation.
You're now a professional at ripping through assignments while in a fog. You may not feel motivated because you're distracted by the storm around you, and you may not finish them to the best of your ability, but you finish things while barely focusing on them like no one else has.
You've learned when to just tune-out and enter into autopilot. Trigger words aren't a thing for you – they actually do the opposite.
Talking about the science behind cancer in biology? Tune out.
A movie has a sick character? Tune out.
Someone posts an inspirational article about someone else with cancer? Tune out.
At the same time, you also are amazing at researching the specific situation your parent is in when you have the energy – and if your family has actually told you anything. You know about the different strains, what your parent's schedule is, even what color the awareness ribbon for that type of cancer is. (If you're like me, you might even get a tattoo of the ribbon.)
You may be reading this and thinking that I am full of sh*t. Absolutely full of sh*t. And that's okay. If I had read something like this then, I might've thought the same thing too. At one minute, it would've made me cry because it's true for me. At another, I would've wanted to punch my computer because someone was "pretending" to understand how I felt. (Please don't punch the computer.)
I don't know you, I don't know your situation, I don't know your family, and I don't know your parent. But I do know my own situation – and I know that there's enough people in this world for there to be at least one person out there who can relate to this.
So, if you're reading this and can relate so far, I want to tell you one thing: keep going. Keep loving your parent, keep feeling the feelings, keep putting on an act when you need, keep going to class, keep calling home, just keep going.
Much love,
xoxo
