Cancer
“Speak to me of cancer”, he said.
Such a powerful request.
It must come from a place of great desperation.
And so, I began to think about the word.
It’s just a 6-letter word.
Two syllables.
It’s also more than a word. It’s a story.
A sadness.
An abyss of unknown.
We use war words to describe it because regular words fail.
How else could we discuss a life ending, life altering ailment?
Like a soldier, we dig in.
We follow orders into cell-killing treatment.
We go to extraordinary measures to find a path to survival.
Some lose hair and body parts.
Others lose limbs, lives and friends.
As in war, there is a fight.
There is a battle to gain ground, to escape death.
We soldier on in order to avoid losing what we hold sacred.
Cancer offers no way around pain.
And it seems to take more than it gives.
We always lose.
Except when we don’t.
When priceless insights and lessons emerge, like diamonds in the rough.
When inside of the sorrow, there is an opportunity that lifts us and we rise.
Everyone has a cancer story.
You have yours and I have mine
Liz is the star of my cancer story.
She was my long-time friend.
The kind of friend with whom you share deep secrets and holidays.
We shared our weddings, our infertility woes and our dreams.
When she discovered an unwelcome lump, she shared that too.
But it was nothing to worry about said the doctors.
Relief followed, along with more hormones.
More breast feeding and a second pregnancy.
Still nothing to worry about said the doctors.
A move followed. Liz moved closer.
Good bye Chicago. Hello Oregon!
Cancer moved with her.
Her seven-month-old baby in the womb was induced
And her new Oregon doctors could begin aggressive treatment.
Liz was a soldier. She followed her treatment orders.
We took turns helping to care for her toddler and prematurely induced infant.
A blog was set up.
We read and responded to her husband’s insightful, heart-wrenching updates.
We weighed in with encouragement. We prayed prayers.
We hoped for a miracle.
Liz was a warrior.
A bald soldier in a valiant fight.
She battled her beast and came out victorious on the other side of enemy lines.
We gathered often to celebrate her victory.
Her boys grew along with her hair and her strength.
We decided to celebrate with a victory run. Literally.
We ran on a team of 12 from the top of Mount Hood to the Pacific Ocean.
Hood to Coast. Cancer to remission.
We cried when Liz finished her last leg.
We celebrated like rockstars.
We drank beer with our toes in the sand.
Soon I was pregnant with my own blooming miracle.
What better time than Easter to share the news.
Liz and her husband also came with news.
The same day I told them about my baby’s life growing inside me was the day
I learned of Liz’s eminent death.
Damn cancer.
One life grows and another life fades.
Liz’s cancer was in her spine and in her bones.
Her days were numbered.
I cried because it didn’t seem fair for a young mother’s days to be numbered.
Her husband reminded me that all of our days are numbered.
We just forget to live like it.
And so they are.
Liz did not fade fast.
She suffered long and hard and fought tooth and nail.
She was a willing victim of experimental treatment, anything to extend life.
My baby kept growing while Liz kept fading.
She held on long enough to watch her oldest boy start elementary school.
And her premature, emergency-induced infant son graduate from preschool.
Make a wish sent them to Florida and the boys’ dreams came true.
Till hospice.
he 12 of us who ran from the mountain to the ocean with Liz gathered
Beside her as she breathed her last breaths.
Life celebration services are hard.
We celebrate the life lived, but all the while we curse its ending
.We share endearing memories along with a sadness that there will be no more.
No more memories with Liz.
No more van rides and runs along country roads.
No more kid stories while we struggle to raise toddlers and teach full time.
No more students to call her teacher.
It took me a long time to let her go.
And even as I write this, I realize that I still haven’t let her go.
She slides into my thoughts regularly.
On a bad hair day, I think, “At least I have hair.”
When my jeans feel too tight across the rear,
I hear her voice jokingly repeat her endearing cliché,
“Business on the top, party on the bottom.”
Mostly, I remember her grit and tenacity to accept her suffering
So that she could live one day longer,
Share one more memory, give of herself, one more drop of life with us.
She knew her days were numbered and she made the most of them.
I have so many conversations with Liz’s voice in my head.
I run along mountain trails and beside ocean waters,
With memories of Liz filling my heart.
Liz’s life enhanced mine.
She will always be my diamond in the rough.
Shimmering and casting light.
Cancer is a darkness through which light learns to shine.
“Speak to me of cancer”, he said.
The two syllable, six letter word that reshapes lives.
Everyone has a cancer story.
Everyone has a great sadness.
Everyone’s days are numbered.
Liz’s story reminds me that my days are numbered too.
Her ended life reminds me to live out the rest of mine with purpose and love.