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The in-between life and death cancer
The In-Between Do you feel this way to?
I’m 36. I have two kids and stage 4 triple-negative breast cancer. I live in the in-between—not at the beginning where everything is shock and plans and “we’re going to fight this,” and not at the end where there’s some kind of closure. Just… here. In the middle. Knowing, deep down, that I probably won’t make it out.
People ask how I’m doing and I never know what to say. “Fine” is a lie. “Not fine” makes everyone uncomfortable. The truth is: I’m tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix. I’m scared in a way that doesn’t go away when the sun comes up. And I’m grieving a life I haven’t even lost yet—mine.
The nights are the hardest. That’s when the whys come, one after another, like they’re waiting for the house to get quiet. Why me? Why now? Why this kind? Why did my body turn on me? Why do I have to explain cancer to my kids when I can barely explain it to myself? I stare at the ceiling and bargain with a universe that doesn’t bargain back.
Then there are the tears. They don’t ask permission. They show up in the grocery aisle, in the shower, in the car when a song hits a memory. They show up when my son looks at me, eyes big and worried, and asks, “Mom, what’s wrong? Why are you crying? Why are you losing your hair?” How do you answer that in a way a child can carry? I try to be honest without breaking his world. “I’m sick. The medicine makes my hair fall out. I’m sad sometimes, and that’s okay.” He nods, but I see the worry stay in his shoulders.
And the anger. God, the anger. It comes out sideways—snapping at the people I love most, shutting down, being sharp when I mean to be soft. Then I hate myself for it, because at the end of the day, nobody did this to me. There’s no one to blame. Cancer doesn’t care about fairness or plans or how good of a mom you are. So the anger circles back and lands on me, which only makes everything heavier.
My life is a mess. Appointments stack on top of each other. Bills come. The laundry never ends. I forget things I shouldn’t forget. Some days I’m “productive” and feel almost normal; other days I can barely get out of bed and I hate myself for that too. I’m trying to keep routines for my kids so they have something steady to hold onto—dinner, homework, bedtime stories—even when my own insides feel like chaos.
Here’s the part I don’t say out loud often: I am terrified of being forgotten and terrified of being remembered only as “the sick mom.” I want my kids to remember the way I laugh, the way I make their favorite pancakes, the silly voices I use when I read. I want them to know I was a whole person, not just a diagnosis.
If you’re reading this from your own in-between, I see you. I see the way you hold it together for everyone else. I see the questions that loop at 2 a.m. I see the guilt, the grief, the rage, the love that feels so big it could split you open. You are not alone in this, even when it feels like you are the only one awake in the world.
I don’t have a neat ending. I’m still here. Still showing up. Still trying to stay afloat in a life that looks nothing like the one I planned. Some days that’s enough. Some days it has to be.
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Thank you for sharing your experiences with us! I am so sorry about your devastating diagnosis. I received my cancer diagnosis when I was 50 and my youngest was 14 years old. My kids were all old enough to take care of themselves and help me as well.
It so challenging when you have to take care of so many things when you have young children on top of all the challenges that come with cancer diagnosis. Do you have family and friends who are supporting you and helping you? So many chores can be done by people who genuinely would want to help you, but you need to let them know! This would free you up to enjoy your time with your kids and conserve your energy. Don’t feel like you have to do it all by yourself!
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4 ReactionsShelley, I'm much older than you, and I have felt many of the same things. I was diagnosed with two separate cancers a couple of years ago. Radiation seems to have taken care of the lung cancer, but the kidney cancer remains even though it has also been radiated.
I haven't cried, or even wept. I haven't asked "why me". Why? Because I'm now 84, soon to be a year older. And living "in between". I don't know what is happening sometimes. I seem to have a sharp knife living above my neck, and just waiting for it to slip down and end my life. It is a terrible feeling. Unless someone has been here they will never know what it feels like. You do! I enjoyed your writing, and my heart goes out to you, and the thousands of others living in "the in between".
My kids don't talk to me about it. They don't talk to me. My wife, who had a breast cancer scare several years ago, and had a lumpectomy seems to understand, but she isn't in my skin, is she?
I have kept my feelings to myself, for the most part. I have very good Oncologists who follow my cancer care. One even calls me to report on my MRI's. The big problem is that nobody really seems to care about ME.
Thanks for writing with your heart. You have taken a place in my heart, and shall be there always. I hope that the people that love you, and care deeply for you will try to understand. I will too.
I send you the best of wishes and hopes.
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11 ReactionsI’m an in between with a different type of cancer. I had a friend with triple negative breast cancer. She beat that and lived a long life. She made me laugh and I loved her as a dear friend. And think of her often as a wonderful friend, a mom and a full person with many interests and accomplishments.
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4 Reactions@shellyk89
You so completely covered all of the thoughts and emotions we are all dealing with regardless of the "species of cancer beast" we are each living with. Thank you for helping us all remember we aren't alone on this journey. God bless you HUGELY! THANK YOU THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH!
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4 Reactions@crbarefoot you are very welcome. Im happy i could help
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1 Reaction@alive My mom is my biggest help, I dont know what I'd do without her. 🥰 I dont have any friends anymore since I found out sadly but that's how life goes.
But thank you so much for your kind words—and for sharing a bit of your own story. I’m sorry you went through that at 50 with four kids at home; 14 is old enough to help, but still so young to watch their mom face cancer. I can’t imagine how heavy that must have been, and I’m glad you made it through.
You’re right, it’s a lot juggling treatment and appointments while trying to keep life normal for little one (hes 4, and i have a 17 yr old daughter there’s always someone who needs something. I do have some support—my mom helps when she can, almost everything I need she helps me with with or my boyfriend but I’ve been bad at asking for more. Your reminder landed at the right time: I don’t have to do it all myself, and letting people pitch in with rides, meals, or even folding laundry would give me more energy for the good parts, like just being with the kids.
Thank you for seeing that. It helps to hear from someone who’s been there. Sending you gratitude and I’m wishing you continued health and lots of ordinary, beautiful days with your family.
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7 Reactions@mapleskoff
I’m so sorry you’ve had to carry this. Two cancers, radiation, the waiting, the scans, that sharp-knife feeling above your neck—I know that sensation too well. It’s a terrible, lonely kind of place, like holding your breath and forgetting how to let it out. You’re right! Unless you’ve stood here, you can’t really know what it feels like.
I’m grateful your radiation helped the lung cancer, and I’m holding hope with you about the kidney cancer. I’m also glad you have oncologists who are attentiveespecially the one who calls with MRI results. That kind of care matters!. And yet, I hear the ache underneath your response that nobody seems to see you in all of this. Not the patient, not the hospital file, but the man who has lived 84 years, who feels, who worries, who loves. That matters to me. You matter to me and I get it.
I’m sorry your kids don’t talk to you about it or much at all. That kind of silence can feel like another weight to carry. And I understand what you mean about your wife, she loves you, she’s walked near this road herself, and still she isn’t in your skin. Both things can be true at once her care and your aloneness.
Please don’t feel you have to keep it all inside. If you ever want to put words to the days that feel foggy, or the fear that sits like a blade, or the small, good moments too, I’m here to read them. You’ve already taken a place in my heart as well, and I’ll keep it safe. PLEASE BELEIVE.
Thank you for saying you enjoyed my writing. It helps more than I can say to know it reached someone who lives in this same in-between. I’m sending you steady wishes—for ease where it can be found, for clarity when the fog lifts, for moments that feel like yourself, and for people who can meet you where you are. You deserve to be seen, not just your diagnosis.
I’m thinking of you, and I’m grateful we found each other in this place. Please write again whenever you want. I’ll be here, listening with my whole heart.
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5 Reactions@djchambers
I’m so happy to hear your friend beat triple-negative breast cancer—that’s wonderful news. What a gift that she got to live a long, full life after going through something so hard. She’s truly blessed, and so are the people who got to love her all those years 🙂
@gangcarotid1
Thank you—that means more than you know. I’m so glad the words landed where you are, and that they helped you . Your not alone you aren’t none of us are, even when the “cancer beast” looks a little different for each of us. Your kindness and that huge blessing are carrying me today. Sending a big hug right back to you!
@ffr Thank you—reading this made me tear up in the best way. I’m amazed you’re putting the “In-Between” into your journal; I keep one too for all the middle-of-the-night thoughts that don’t have anywhere else to go. It helps to know we’re not the only ones talking to the ceiling at 2 a.m.
Your words about being a mom hit home. I’m just trying to stack up as many good, ordinary memories as I can for my kids while I’m here. And thank you for the nudge about support. I’ve been the one wearing the brave mask for everyone, too, and you’re right, it’s exhausting. I finally asked my doctor for a referral to a therapist because I’ve only been using my notebooks to rely on. Honestly, I’ve only been brave enough to take the mask off in my writing, and I think it’s time I had a space where I can say things out loud.
I’m grateful for you and for this circle where people really do get it, without the stay positive lecture. They do help sometimes tho. Sending hugs right back, and thank you for making me feel seen.
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