When my father received a stage IV esophageal cancer diagnosis back in 2012, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I spent countless hours on the phone with him and his doctors, trying to grasp what the next months would bring. I cried, indulged in stress-eating ice cream, and took my frustrations out on my husband, all because I was overwhelmed with fear. My life felt chaotic; the laundry piled up, dust coated my coffee tables, and I struggled to keep track of basic self-care. Each day seemed to unveil new challenges—chemotherapy schedules, medication protocols, and unexpected medical issues.
I was a wreck, lying awake at night as a terrified daughter, scared of losing her dad. My nursing background felt useless against the reality of it all. I was angry, helpless, and everything else in between. Cancer took away any sense of normalcy in my roles as a mother, wife, and daughter. I was furious.
I desperately needed support, and my friends stepped up. They went for runs with me when I needed to vent, and they allowed me to call them from the grocery store when I just couldn’t take in any more medical jargon. My greatest ally, my husband, held me while I cried and even kept quiet when I resorted to boxed macaroni and cheese for dinner multiple nights in a row. Despite my outbursts, they loved me through it all.
When my dad passed away in October 2012, my friends showed me kindness beyond my expectations. One friend, despite living hundreds of miles away, arranged for a catered breakfast for my family on the day of the funeral, knowing we’d forget to eat. In those moments, I realized the power of friendship and promised to be that kind of friend for others in their times of need.
Fast forward four years, and I’ve lost track of how many friends have experienced the loss of a parent. I’ve stood by them at their loved ones’ funerals, brought them meals (seriously, enough with the lasagna!), and sent gifts that honor their memories instead of flowers that wilt quickly. While these experiences have made me a better friend in tough times, nothing prepares me for the moment when someone tells me their parent has received a devastating cancer diagnosis. I can see the same pain in their eyes that I once felt.
I wish I could shield my friend from the heartache of watching her mother take her last breath. I want to tell her to get that awful funeral dress now, to avoid wandering aimlessly through stores later. I want her to memorize her mother’s hands, because memories can fade in strange ways. I want to warn her about the irrational thoughts that will creep in and that she might drink too much in the months that follow. She’ll hear the cliché “time heals all wounds,” and it will make her want to punch something.
But I won’t share those thoughts just yet. She’ll discover them on her own journey, in her own time. For now, I’ll be her shoulder to cry on, her support on bad days, and the friend who pours her a glass of wine when she needs to escape. I’ll remind her that I’ve walked this path and that laughter will eventually return to her life.
When she’s ready, I’ll be there to hold her hand as she enters the “I’ve Lost A Parent Club”—a club she doesn’t even know exists yet.
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In summary, while it’s hard to see a friend face such pain, I’ll be there for her every step of the way, just as my friends were there for me.