“Hello?” Her voice came through the phone, and I felt a lump form in my throat as I struggled to breathe.
“Hello,” she said again, as I searched for something—anything—that could shift the conversation away from the dreaded words: “It’s cancer.”
At just 35 years old, Rachel was vibrant and full of life—a devoted mother of three little girls, a loving wife, and my beloved older sister. When she first mentioned the lump a few weeks earlier, I hardly focused on her words. Instead, I was caught up in mundane topics like assembling a crib, our mother’s upcoming visit, and the weather. Now, however, the gravity of her situation hit me hard.
“What did the doctor say?” I finally managed to ask.
“It’s cancer,” she replied.
“Wait, how? What?” I stammered. As a writer and English teacher, words had always been my refuge, my means of navigating life’s challenges. But in this moment, they seemed to evaporate, leaving me lost and speechless. We ended the call, and I returned to chopping potatoes. At nine months pregnant, I was unable to fly across the country to her side. I lived on the stunning Oregon Coast, while she resided in the heart of the Deep South. Our childhood in Chicago felt like a distant memory, a time when we never imagined our lives would diverge so drastically.
For days, I kept the news to myself. I couldn’t bring myself to share what Rachel had told me with my husband or anyone else. Each night, I woke with her words echoing in my mind, haunted by the implications: pain, struggle, and the devastation that lay ahead. I couldn’t stop thinking about her precious daughters, all under five years old, and the uncertainty they faced.
The next day, when I called Rachel again, I still had no comforting words to offer. Instead, she requested that we all educate ourselves—diets, vitamins, treatment options—anything that might help her fight this battle. We complied, but our findings felt inadequate, and our attempts to reassure her fell flat.
In the months that followed, I received updates about her lumpectomy and radiation treatments. Rachel’s husband and daughters accompanied her to the medical center, where the girls kept themselves busy with crayons while she underwent procedures in stark, sterile rooms. Meanwhile, I was home nursing my newborn son and wishing I could do more for her.
After her treatments, Rachel was initially declared cancer-free, though the threat of recurrence loomed over us daily. She made drastic lifestyle changes, eliminating sugar and committing to an intense exercise routine. Her already slim frame lost even more weight, and she immersed herself in online support groups, sharing stories that often left me feeling terrified. I hated those forums—they filled her with dread more than they provided comfort.
Then came another call. “I’m getting a double mastectomy,” she said. “Can you help me find some information on breast reconstruction?” I was horrified. The thought of her undergoing such a procedure made my stomach turn. Yet, I couldn’t let her face this alone. Together, we spent hours on the phone, scrolling through images of reconstructed breasts, discussing her options. She knew this was necessary; living in fear of the unknown was worse than facing physical pain.
For three weeks, she moved away from her family to recover, with our mother by her side. I sent her magazines and a card filled with unspoken words and love. The first days post-surgery were excruciating; she struggled to move, to hug her daughters, to engage in life. Even years later, she still experiences pain from the surgery, although she has distanced herself from the survivor narrative that once consumed her.
The initial shock of “It’s cancer” left us all grappling with the fear of a future without her. We didn’t know that survival was possible; all we knew was loss. During my first mammogram, when the nurse asked if my sister had passed away, I felt sick to my stomach. “No, she’s alive and thriving,” I managed to reply. Rachel became our beacon of strength, guiding us through the chaos even when words failed us.
I’m sorry I couldn’t provide the comforting words you needed, Rachel. Sorry that every time you sought solace, I felt utterly powerless to help.
If you’re navigating similar challenges, remember that sometimes, just being there can be the greatest comfort of all. And for more insightful tips on family planning, check out our posts on home insemination at this link.
To summarize, supporting a loved one through a cancer diagnosis can leave you feeling speechless. Often, the best thing you can do is simply be present, offering your love and strength without needing to find the perfect words.