I sat in church last week and the congregation stood and started singing one of my favorite Matt Maher songs and a tear snuck down my cheek. I grabbed the hand of my son sitting next to me to help me keep it together. It’s incredible how a song can bring back a flood of memories.
From the moment I was diagnosed I had many tearful conversations with God. In the first few days I kept asking “Why? Why me? Why now? I have young kids and so many plans. Why? I need to know why.” I snuck in church the first Sunday after I met with my oncologist into a back-row seat. The entire row all to myself. I typically sat alongside my usual crew and we would exchange glances, smiles and worship together. This day was different, I had a secret and I hadn’t accepted the reality of it and I surely wasn’t ready to share it. Now that I had settled into my solo spot; Chip, our Pastor of Worship and Music, stood at the front of the room asking all of us to stand. Guitar in hand he started strumming and the words to “Lord, I Need You” by Matt Maher appeared on the screen. I sang that song with every ounce of courage that I could muster, while tears streamed like a fountain down my cheeks. I was a secret keeping, faith doubting, woman with Cancer. God showed up that morning and used Chip’s guitar and voice to sing directly to my heart. From that moment on I knew that I was not fighting this alone. That my loving and faithful God was beside me and that I needed to tell my village, that I needed them to be the hands and feet of God for me through this battle. It took me longer to find the Hope in the darkness but from this moment I knew I wasn’t alone.
We’ve recently passed the two-year anniversary of my final chemo treatment. There has been an incredible amount of healing that has happened in those two years but that will need its own moment. The final chemo treatment brought a good amount of relief but it by no means was a finale to my fight against cancer. Chemotherapy was a large portion of time but only a small portion of the process. The side effects, although hard, were quickly a memory. It rapidly turned into something that was not as memorable as I had anticipated. Don’t get me wrong, pumping poison into your body that caused nausea, exhaustion, mouth sores, body aches, sore scalp, vertigo, pneumonia and many more ailments were all consuming while I was in it. When I started treatments, I imagined my final treatment filled with girlfriends, a fun lunch, treats for us and the staff, flowers and then a huge party in our cul-de-sac with a Mexican food buffet and a crowd of friends and family celebrating the triumph of me finishing my treatments. However, once COVID hit I moved on to doing all the treatments alone. This meant that the celebrations were minimal or alone as well. The nurses became my support in a way that I hadn’t anticipated, they became my friends. We exchanged stories about our kids, I heard about their weekends and trips, and I ached longingly to escape into their worlds without cancer. We would chat and then I would pop in my headphones and disappear into the songs on my perfectly curated playlists and a Benadryl and chemo induced nap. At that time, the nurses were the only people that I saw outside of the four guys that lived in my home. The nurse that helped me navigate my first chemo was also the one that administered my last dose. At the final treatment she presented me with a certificate, a small bell and a hug. Two years ago, it was all over with very little celebration. It became time for me to move on to the next step and my attention was focused on getting the tumor out of my body. All those side effects slowly faded into the shadows.
When I reflect on chemo I don’t remember the side effects as much as I remember the moments of God using people to show up. The memories of friends offering to take me to appointments, them delivering prescriptions, sending me text messages of jokes and support, dropping off my favorite drink, inviting me to events (knowing I wasn’t able to attend but didn’t want me to feel left out), dropping off sanitizer when it was scarce, dropping off cookies, mailing me cards, texting me even when I was too tired to text back, showing up for driveway conversations, sending the most thoughtful and encouraging gifts, arranging a laundry service, meal trains, Chick-Fil-A nugget trays, Target runs for peanut butter and salami, recorded messages, Gatorade deliveries, driveway margaritas and so much more. In the thick of it I was hyper-focused on all the help that we couldn’t accept because of the pandemic.
Now that we are two years out I can see with clear eyes all the ways that people helped. How fortunate I was to have the village of people love on my family through the hardest and darkest days of my life. Life is hard, cancer is hard, cancer as a parent is hard, cancer during a global pandemic is hard. If you haven’t been in the thick of a diagnosis yourself or with a loved one you may not know how significant your small gestures can feel. Don’t ever feel like your support is insignificant. I have answered many questions from friends on how to support a recently diagnosed friend or family member. My best advice is to just show up in whatever way you can. However, it is an exhausting emotional roller coaster. The friend or loved one is no longer the person you knew before. They are sitting in a dark place, acknowledge that it sucks and let them sit in it. Make sure that the support you are offering is helpful for them and not just something to help you feel better about their situation. They may deny your attempts to help, keep showing up. They are wrestling with something that you can only understand if you’ve been in that same space. Give to them without expecting any time or attention, they are using every ounce of their strength to process and prepare for a battle that few can comprehend. Let them prepare and be ready to help hold them up for their battle. There are endless unknowns and future plans to grieve all while trying to navigate life altering medical decisions. Just show up for them and never stop. I promise you that they won’t forget it. They won’t be able to show you politeness and grace but deep inside they love you and will remember that you continued to show up for them.
My cancer diagnosis drew clear lines for me on who valued my friendship. I live every day with a grateful heart for all those people that showed up for me in big and small ways. Friends that never gave up on me, will forever stand ahead of all of the others.
With love and grace,
Robin
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