It's My Cancer-versary (Or How Being Widowed Actually Helped Me Face Cancer)

It’s been two years since my doctor uttered the words: You’ve got cancer.

Now I find myself reflecting back on these past two years. They’ve been… a growth curve for sure.

A ‘growth curve’. That’s what I call it when life kicks my ass but eventually I get through to the other side and reach a point where, in hindsight, I can see that I’ve evolved into someone new. Someone who knows she can handle more than she previously thought she could. 

And now here I am, two years into this journey: a little more composed, a little more willing to take risks, a little more willing to be vulnerable…

…a little more confident in my ability to handle what life throws at me. 

The appointment...

I knew something was wrong going into that appointment. I had been feeling unwell for months: dwindling energy, bloating, constipation. 

I brought it to my doctor in January. Or if I’m being honest... I found a doctor for the first time in the nearly 10 years since Mike had died. In the aftermath of that fast-moving freight train of death that bore down on us, I just… couldn’t go.

I tried.

A few times.

For almost 10 years. (But that’s a story for another day.)

Ironically, even before I started to feel sick, I had decided 10 years was long enough, and 2024 would be the year I went back to routine medical care.

So anyway, I felt awful, found a doctor, and we started running tests. A lot of tests. If you’ve been through cancer yourself, you know. But eventually, the colonoscopy we scheduled pretty much right off the bat came around, and we found out why I was feeling so miserable. (Get your colonoscopy, kids! They’re important. And if I’d been going to the doctor over those previous 10 years, I likely wouldn’t have had to go through this.)

My first thought when the doctor first said the words was that I was really grateful my son Tyler was sitting there with me.

Not for moral support, but because one of the memories seared into my brain from when Mike was in the hospital was telling Tyler there was a good chance his dad wasn’t going to survive this.

And I NEVER wanted to have to have that particular conversation again. Once was enough. The doctor told him I had cancer, and I will be forever grateful I didn’t have to. 

My second thought was that I was relieved to know what was wrong with me. Not that I wanted it to be cancer, but I told the doctor I was not going to be happy if we still didn’t have any answers. 

Then I started worrying about how this would affect Tyler. He was a young adult by this point, but was he really ready to be orphaned and on his own? How would he cope with watching me go through cancer? With helping me go through cancer? How would this affect his future – emotionally, physically (because now there’s an immediate family history), financially? 

What was coming down the pike for me? In those first moments, I had no idea what stage my cancer was at, what treatment would look like, whether or not I would survive it (a grandparent did, one of Mike’s best friends did not), and eleventy other things I didn’t know I didn’t know. (And WOW. I truly didn't know what I didn’t know.)

And like a ping pong ball, my brain bounced back and forth between what this meant for Tyler and what it meant for me. 

How do I support my kid while he supports me?

What do I need to do next?

I wish I could protect him from this.

I wish Mike was here to help me through

this so Tyler wouldn’t have to.

Can Tyler handle this?

Can I handle this? 

Grief already taught me...

I found an unexpected overlap between my experience in putting my life back together after Mike died and going through cancer…. 

...to face things head on

The best advice I got when Mike died came from an uncle. Don’t run from grief; it’ll catch you sooner or later. When those waves come over you, just face it head on and let yourself feel all of it. That’s how you get through it and process it. By facing it head on. 

And his advice served me when I got diagnosed with cancer. I just… faced it all. The diagnosis. The tests. Waiting for answers. The surgery. Recovery. More tests. More waiting. Saying the words, “my oncologist.” 

(It turns out people are just uncomfortable with the word ‘oncologist’ as they are ‘widow’.)

But knowing I was able to get through the ragged ravages of those early years of deep grief was what empowered me to face cancer with some modicum of resolve.

I’d already been through my worst fear; I could get through my second-worst fear, too.

...to set some boundaries

If you’ve been through either of these, you know some people are going to put managing their emotions on you. You know the ones… the people who want you to make them feel better about everything you’re going through. 

After Mike died, I tried. After I was diagnosed, I didn’t. 

Maybe that’s cold, but putting my life back together after Mike died taught me to set some damn boundaries. 

I learned who thought nothing of putting my business on their social media – and therefore didn’t need to know my business.

I learned how to shut down nosy, intrusive questions.

I learned I don’t have to minimize my own pain to make someone else feel better about my current catastrophe so they can cope with it. Managing my own emotions when going through the most difficult times of my life was a full-time job as it was; I didn’t need to manage theirs, too. 

Those boundaries I learned to set after Mike died served me well when I got cancer, and when people expressed their emotions about my cancer (no matter what they were feeling, their emotions were valid), I didn’t minimize my feelings in service to theirs. 

...to accept help

But while I learned how to set boundaries, I also learned how to ask for – and accept – help. (And okay fine, I’m still working on this. But I am getting better at it.)

Of course I knew I needed support while Mike was in the hospital and things were going sideways in really bad ways, but I learned pretty quickly after he died that being the only adult responsible for managing a household and raising a grieving child is… a lot. 

I needed help with everything...

from why won’t this frickin’ smoke alarm stop beeping to parenting advice; 

from help shutting down the sprinkler system in the fall to finding a ride for Tyler when I couldn’t drive him to practice; 

from where do I go from here (which is how I got into coaching, by the way—you can read more about it here) to going through Mike’s things.

Admittedly, I kinda went back to my independent ways as the years passed, but when I got my diagnosis, I knew to ask my sister to come for my surgery and to bring someone with me to those first few oncology appointments. 

But I also learned the people around me wanted to support me more in my day-to-day life than I’d been letting them. 

So now I ask for help when the fence blows down or the car won’t start or I want another perspective when I need to make a decision.  

Like I said, I’m still a work in progress, but life is easier richer when I let people in and stop trying to carry everything alone. (And it makes my inner circle happier, too.)

...and that I finally am strong.

And now I sit here, two years after hearing “You’ve got cancer”, currently cancer free** but still spending time with my oncologist every 6 months, and grateful to have landed where I did. 

There were so many times in those early months after Mike died when I heard you’re so strong. If you’ve been there, you know how unhelpful that sentiment is when the person saying is hasn’t witnessed the ugly side to your grief: the uncontrollable crying jags, the rage that seemingly springs from nowhere, the brain fog, the questionable decisions, the days you can’t get out of bed.

If you’re in the midst of it, I’m not going to tell you you’re strong. I know you feel anything but. 

I will tell you, however, that someday you will be. One day, you’ll wake up and realize not only did you make it through your worst nightmare, but you’re standing tall. You’ll bear the scars, sure, but you will have made it through. You’ll realize you’re capable of more than you could have ever imagined before. 

Another of my uncles texted me after he found out about my cancer diagnosis, and among other things, he said I was one of the strongest people he knew. I cherish his text – because now I believe him. As scary as facing cancer was, I knew I had been through something that scared me more than cancer did, and I built something I really love out of the wreckage of my life. I knew I could do it again if it came to it. 

** I want to acknowledge that my cancer journey has been much smoother than what many experience. There are many ways this could’ve turned out differently, and this post would certainly be a different one if my surgery hadn’t been a success and/or every one of my test results after that first colonoscopy had not been in my favor over these past two years.