You ask me what is cancer? Listen to me. Here I am emotionally drained, shaking with fear, and with tears in my eyes. I will tell you. Listen to me, without pity. Listen with understanding. Put yourself in my exhausted, emotionally drained body, and hear me.
Cancer is that moment when a loved one is diagnosed. It’s the questioning of doctors, God, and all those ‘are you okay’s?’ that people ask, when it’s obvious that you’re not. It’s the sacrifice that everyone has to make to keep her immune system level. It’s the hope, that today won’t be her last. It’s the hope that you will be strong enough for another day. It’s the aloha (love) that can fill a room, when you are given good news. At the end, cancer can easily become a rushed “aloha” (good-bye).
Cancer is fear. When that phone rings to tell you the news, and all you can do is hold the phone and silently cry. It’s knowing the statistic for that particular cancer, and already having a hard time grasping onto hope. Knowing that marriage, babies, and that “happy ending” she always dreamed about, is slowly slipping through her youthful fingers. It’s the fear of saying those last good-byes. It’s the understanding that she won’t be here for the next birthdays and Christmases. The fear of knowing that she won’t be there to pick up the phone when I just want to talk. Cancer is not only the fear of the unknown, but the dread of knowing my life has to continue without her.
It’s the questioning of the doctors. The feeling of need to have them be wrong. Even when you know deep down, the cancer is starting to take over. Cancer is asking God, “Why?” Spending months, praying to God, asking Him to please heal her. Asking how could He allow this cancer to form in a person with so much love and only wanting to share it with the world.
Cancer is sacrificing. It’s having to sanitize the whole house, so when her immune system shut down, she would at least have a safe place to stay without fear. Spending any extra time you have with her, acting as a caregiver. When she becomes too weak to get out of bed without guidance, leaving you to dress, bath, feed and entertain while her mom hides in another room to grieve. It’s the sacrifice of not only time, but the sacrifice of losing yourself in all those fake smiles you keep putting on for her sake. The hardest thing to do is put on a smile, when all you want to do is curl up in a ball and sob over every memory you have created together and the thought that you have so little time to continue creating more.
Cancer is learning how to enjoy those small moments, because you never know how many new moments you will be granted with. When she becomes too weak to form sentences, each breath becomes a struggle. But, finding a way to laugh together as we made our own version of sign language, and just being the true dorks we were. At the end of the day, those small moments are the ones I remember most. Cancer is about hope. Without hope, it is too easy to just give up. It’s that moments when she finds enough strength to pull herself up and take a couple steps forward after weeks of being in a wheelchair. The aloha (love) that surrounded the room when we realized she was getting stronger was amazing.
Cancer is saying that final “aloha.” The whispering of “love you,” will forever be burned into the back of my mind as will the moment her fingers turn cold, bright black eyes became a dull gray. And knowing at that moment she was not really with us anymore. I tell you this, cancer is about the “aloha,” for the reason that at the end the only thing that matters is love and acceptance.
