Noise

I am sitting in my living room trying to write, while a crew of workmen literally saw through the brick around my glass block windows in order to fix the flashing.  It’s so incredibly loud that it’s hard to think.  I would leave the house, but I need to be here to wait for the new hot water heater to arrive.  I haven’t had hot water since Tuesday.  I feel the frustration and anxiety bubble up in me and it’s overwhelming and annoying.  I have things to do!  I need peace and quiet to do them.  Grrrrrr!!!

And then the light bulb - yet another metaphor for the struggles of dealing with cancer.

The noise.  It starts with that phone call you get, where a sympathetic doctor tells you the biopsy was abnormal.  There is the noise of talking, the noise of anxiety swirling in your head, that other voice that says, ‘no, no it’s not me, you called the wrong person’ and that weird white noise, making it difficult to hear or understand anything at all.  Somewhere in the distance, you hear the sound of crying.  You realize it’s you.

And then there are the noises of chemo.  The clicking and beeping of the pump that is shooting toxins into your bloodstream, killing the cancer, and anything else that gets in its way.  The shuffling of feet, and the squeaking of wheels going past your door, while another patient makes his way to the bathroom.  The happy smiley sounds that your friends and family make, trying to keep your spirits up, and the silent but very real sound you hear as you catch the eye of another cancer patient and immediately know that you are not the only one suffering.

The noise of radiation is beeping and buzzing, and the sound of holding your breath so that you keep your tattoos in line with the lasers that guide the machine.  It doesn’t take long, but in your head you hear, ‘don’t breathe, don’t breathe’ until you hear the machine stop buzzing and the tech behind the protective glass say, ‘ok, that’s it for today.’

The noise of the nurse’s voice is what you hear after surgery. “You are in recovery.  Your surgery is finished.  Are you in any pain?  Would you like something for the pain?”  And if you are lucky like I was, you hear your father’s voice telling you, “They got it all out, and your lymph nodes are clear.  The doctor said you are going to be ok.”  And you drift off into another blessedly noiseless sleep.

And if you are truly lucky, you hear your oncologist say, “You have done really well.  Go live your life and check back in with us in three months.”  You hear the triumphant voices in your head for awhile.  “I beat cancer!  I can do anything!”  And you hear the relief and congratulations of everyone who saw you through the journey.

But it’s never long before you start to hear the noise of fear.  “What if it comes back?  How can I move forward after what I have been through?  Will I ever be the same again?”

And that’s when you realize that it’s all just noise.  Hearing all that noise means you are alive.  If it bugs you, put on some headphones for awhile, but never forget the beauty of the noise of life.

Just Be

Lately, I have had a lot of people asking for advice on what to do for their friend or family member that is going through cancer.  The queries sound mostly like this:  “I want to help.  I want to send something.  I want to know the right thing to do, the right thing to say."

Here’s what I tell them.

I know how scary it is to watch your friend or our family member go through cancer, and I know how much you want to do the right thing, or say the right thing, and fix this.  Let go of this need.  There is no on right thing to do or say, and you can’t fix it.

My advice is pretty simple, just be and just do.

To me, the greatest gift you can give to cancer survivors, from diagnosis onward, is to just be with them, wherever they are.  Sometimes they need laughter and distraction. Sometimes they need someone to cry with them, or hold them while they do.  Sometimes they need someone to listen to them talk, or to sit with them in silence.  Sometimes they need all these things, seemingly at once.  To put your need to do or say the right thing aside, letting them know that whatever happens, you will be there, takes courage and strength. And it is a very precious gift that not everyone will be able to give.

If taking action is more comfortable for you, then my advice is to just do. It’s fairly simple.  If you were ill and didn’t have the energy to get through the day, what would you need? Organize friends and neighbors to cook for the family, send a gift certificate to a meal delivery service, pick up and do laundry, send a cleaning service over to the house.  Walk the dog or clean the kitty litter. Give them a ride to treatments and keep them company. Gifts of books, movies, and pajamas are always good for someone who is often homebound from treatment.  I had a friend who would call me up and say, “Get dressed, I am taking you to lunch.”  Even if you don’t send the perfect gift, or cook the perfect meal, the love and support shines through.

Two final points. 

This advice works for anyone going through any sort of illness or trauma, not just cancer. 

And on a personal level, even five years later, I still treasure those people who can just be with me, whenever the fear or sadness bubbles up.  They are one of the greatest gifts cancer has given me.