@frogjumper

When our son of 15 months was diagnosed with cancer, I learned quickly that the diagnosis wasn't just hard for me, but for everyone else around me. My only brother didn't speak to me for two years (he was unable to deal with the trauma). My only sister sent me a bower of flowers (3' high, honestly) that looked like funeral flowers, and then didn't speak to me for . . . almost as long as my brother. My mother-in-law came over to ask me where my "list" was (you know, that "list" for thank you's you are supposed to write because someone brought you cookies - because they didn't know what else to do). By the way, we only received a few gifts of cookies, because everyone stayed away. And honestly, in that season of life, I was just trying to breathe in and out every day, I had no emotional energy for a "list". My father-in-law stayed angry the entire week (and even years later) our son was in the hospital after his cancer surgery. . . he was angry because I was clinging to my husband at that time, only wanting to be with him during the waiting of the surgery. I couldn't bear to be around anyone else at that time - everything was so consumingly raw. Our church congregation? No one came. (We were very active church members.) I became almost disillusioned with our church family, because if they didn't know what to do, who does? I was a young mom in my mid-twenties with three children and a husband who turned to work to get through the trauma. I didn't blame him, he did what he needed. He took 5 years to come to terms with our son's cancer. My parents were there (on the phone) to some degree - but they were suffering, too. I felt alone. . . three children under the age of 5, and one of them who needed my constant care through surgery and then chemo, and everything else in-between.

Fast forward over 30 years, I am diagnosed with breast (and a year later, uterine) cancer. Some things have changed in my experiences, and some, maybe not so much. There are still those who don't know what to do or say, so they do or say nothing. Or there are those who say something (we call it, filling-the-airwaves) because they feel they have to say something, and it ends up being the wrong thing. (I think that might be what you are referring to as "really stupid things".) Then, there are those who are watching and feeling the pain with you, but can't bear to be there, alongside you. Then, there are those who are just too busy in life. Then, there are those who just plain gossip about the next bad thing that happens to someone. And then, there are those like your sister, who rise up and jump in with you, even when it's hard to do. So, yes, I think you hit it square when you said there are "gains and losses".

My story is not any better, nor any worse, than anyone else's, it is just my story. It gives me a point of reference in life. I know my story pretty well, and though others around me might try to understand my story, they might not be able to. I think people genuinely care. Of course, they do. And I think people are genuinely good - or at least want to be. (I have to believe this in life 🙂 ). Some people are born with that gift of compassion, and it comes naturally. Some people have an opportunity to learn compassion when they endure hardship (I say "opportunity" because we always have a choice to learn something from trials, but the question is, rather, if we open ourselves up to being a student at the time). And some people want to care, but they find themselves so consumed by life that they don't have the mental, nor the emotional, space to do something about it.

One of my daughters-in-law shared something profound with me during my cancer journey - and that was "no response is still a response". She was taught that no-response was unacceptable. How wise of her parents! Because, we are ALL responding ALL of the time. . . and by not responding, we are actually responding. Wow, how true is that? even in my own life.

Having walked through cancer with our infant son (he is now 32, hallelujah!), and breast/uterine cancer, I find that people are still just. . . people. . . and many of us are all trying to move through this life with some amount of poise and grace, love and kindness. Someone who has not walked through this breast cancer journey cannot understand. So, I continue to work at trying to give them compassion and extending understanding. I'm not always successful at it, but the point being, I am trying. . . trying to make something good of the terrible ordeal that happened to me. . . trying to help educate others about compassion . . . both in my need for it, and my need to extend it to others. (And to be fair, they are likely "trying", too!)

I've shared this before - breast cancer is messy. But so is all of life. It takes a conscious effort to engage, never more pronounced than in trauma. It's my prayer that you hold fast to those who can and are there for you during this trial, and then, let go of those who cannot or will not be there. Sometimes I differentiate between those who cannot (physically or emotionally) and those who will not (they can, but make the choice not to). I've learned differentiating is not as fruitful, and results in hard feelings . . . so, rather, it becomes a matter of letting it all go. I'm still a work-in-progress, and I continue to work to let those things GO.

Being real. I learned this lesson through our son's cancer, and I continue to delve deeper into this realness even over 30 years later. People can't help you if they don't know. Even their feeble efforts of trying to be there for us can't happen if we don't let them know. Sometimes we want help, and sometimes we don't want to be helped - but part of this compassion and understanding is to first let others know our need. It's hard. It's vulnerable. No, it's crazy vulnerable. . . . but it is what it is. . . and people cannot begin to attempt to help us if they aren't aware of the need. That life lesson is still one I work on. 🙂

I used to swim at an area college, and they had a mammoth sign on the wall that read "STRONG AND SMOOTH". I still remember that sign. . . it helped me swim steady and hard at the time when I did my laps, not wasting effort with undesirable movements in my stroke. Today, it reminds me to just bear down and push through smoothly, not wasting my effort on things that produce ill-effects, slowing me down. That's hard work! But so isn't getting through breast cancer. So, my hope is that you move through this breast cancer strong and smooth. Hugs 🙂