Miss Adventures

What Cancer Looks Like- From The Outside

The first time, surgery, to remove the offending organ. The second time, learning that the cancer had already metastasized. 

There is an ugly word. 

You are told, by someone you love, "I am going to die." You know it's true, though you desperately don't want to believe it. Not this person you love. 

Not this person, who has been your rock. 

The strongest person you know. 

The person whom you've just found, or re-connected with.

Not this person, so full of life, so full of brilliance.

So full of cancer. 

The shock of this news, that you are going to lose this person, this big part of your life, stops you, cold.

The flurry of questions, that run through your mind, all beginning with "Why?" And the answers, which are never answers. "Nobody knows."

And, so... 

You allow them to decide. How do you want to handle this? Are you prepared to go, peacefully? Or will you fight, to the bitter end, for just a postponement of the inevitable? Just a few more months, with those you love.

He chose to fight. Though the chemo, when everything sickened him, everything pained him. Everything hurt so much, that he would cry. And, you wanted to. Still, he fought. Holding his head, over the toilet, as he lost what seemed to be his last three meals. He was too weak to hold himself up. He was 72 years old. The chemo was worse than the cancer, from the outside.

But, it was his choice. His battle, to fight. 

The attempts to get him to take food, even clear broth, were more and more difficult. 

But, you try. 

The attempts to cheer him, grew increasingly difficult, because of the banality. But, you try.

The time spent, in physical therapy, massage, and searching for anything, to ease his pain, ease his mind, and your own.

You always try. 

Because to not try, means to accept that you are helpless, in the face of this fucked up disease. Not the disease, but, the so-called treatment. The ravages of chemotherapy, on the human body, seems more like torture. And you are forced to watch it, and keep that stupid fucking cheerful smile, that pointless sunny disposition. Because you don't want to seem ungrateful, uncaring, of the suffering you are seeing. 

You want to be strong, for this person who has been your strength. And, you want to hope that it will work. That it will cure or kill this cancer, and things will be normal, again.

Finally, it stops. There are no more treatments. No more poisons, pumped into his body. They only tell you that:

"There is nothing more that we can do."

And, you want to scream, in their faces, "Haven't you done enough damage, already?"

And so, you go home. Take him home, to die. And you sit, reading to him, cajoling him, to eat something, taking care of his personal needs, because he is now unable to do it, himself. You spend hours, talking, about everything. All the why, what if, and wherefore in life. He tells you, through the haze of painkillers, everything he feels that you need to know. And, you try. 

You try not to break down. You try to be strong, for just a while longer. For him. For her. For them. The person who was always so strong, for you. And, in the end, you tell them.

"It's okay. You don't have to fight, now. You don't have to wait, for me. You have earned your peace. I love you."