You Are My Catharsis

I have spent months running from this – my first ever blog.  Although the tangle of words has been perpetually tumbling around in my brain, like clothes in a dryer, I was able to hold them at bay until now by justifying the prioritization of other Cancer Can(‘t) development needs.  But it is time; time to lay bare my self-doubt, trampling it with words that reveal the galvanizing trail this ever-too-prevalent disease ushered me down. 

“You have cancer.  The pathology report is not complete yet so we are unclear of its origin . . . .”  The voice began to fade into the background and the tears came, incapable of restraint.  My brain, forced into this unenviable improvisation, carried me off to a place where I was left staring down at a soul in shock.  As I looked down, my brain kept me focused with thoughts – How do I protect people from this news? How do I ensure that this does not change their lives? How do I do this by myself without transferring the burden to others?  I must get out of here, regroup, make a plan, move forward. 

“I know you did not want me to but, I told someone,” my fiancé said.  “I told them your appointment was today.”  My responsive thoughts came raining down on my already pounding head like a hailstorm.  “You did WHAT?!?!,” I thought, not yet wanting to articulate my dismay.  “I thought you might want to talk to someone,” he went on.  “I thought it would help you.” 

In hindsight, in those two very brief moments, Cancer Can(‘t) began to form.  The juxtaposition of me steadfast in my belief that I would – that I could – do this alone and the “others” who wanted to help.  Together, all of us would discover the CANs and CAN’Ts of cancer, creating an organization that I believed, at the time, was the result of my own defeat. 

Hectic days followed my diagnosis.  Days full of researching and comprehending, meeting doctors and making life-altering decisions, planning and disclosing.  Unbeknownst to me, the “others” – SO many others – were planning too.  Planning to keep me safe during COVID; planning to feed my family of five for the next six plus months; planning to keep me comfortable at the infusion center; and planning to make sure I knew I was prayed for, thought of, supported and loved every minute of every day.

As the support grew stronger, my reluctance to it waned.  I watched as my family made it through every day with “relative” ease; relative being the key word.  Not only did we have meals, calls, texts, surprises and innumerable expressions of love but, the ability of my family to disclose and discuss my diagnosis, treatment and prognosis with others allowed them to maintain the mental fortitude they needed to carry on.

Every week I would go to the infusion center focused solely on myself.  I was permitted to do that because of the others.  They made sure my family was fed, my errands were completed and my children were picked up/dropped off when necessary.  As I sat in the infusion chair, my thoughts would often turn to how lucky I was sitting there with no other worries.  I frequently looked at other patients and wondered – hoped – that each one of them was as lucky as me, knowing full well that not everyone was.

As my chemotherapy ended and I transitioned to surgery and radiation, the other patients began weighing on me.  Were they stubborn like me and did not want to accept help?  If they did want help, were there resources available to them?  Why are some, like me, so fortunate, and others have to struggle to get the simple things done while fighting for their lives? 

These thoughts ruminated in my psyche for a while.  Eventually, I began expressing these thoughts through emails and text messages to my family – “Thanks for driving me this morning.  I hope every other patient is as lucky as me.”  It wasn’t too long before my hope for others evolved into wanting to ensure this for them.  Then, one night I just let it out. 

“I think I am going to start a non-profit to help cancer patients,” I said promisingly.  Silence . . . crickets . . . cough, cough.  “Um, don’t you think you have enough going on right now?!?!,” my fiancé retorted.  If memory serves, I did not verbalize a response.  Rather, I tucked my “that was not what I was hoping for” away and let time march on. 

Fortunately, time did not dissuade me.  In fact, once verbalized, the promise of hope for others began permeating my everyday thoughts.  I bought books and read articles about starting a charity.  I reached out to friends about collaborating with me as officers and directors of this aspirational entity.  Names and logos took root and were supplanted until, finally, they felt right.  As Cancer Can(‘t) passed each milestone in its evolution, we had emoji salutes and live toasts to future success.  After months of hard work, setbacks and celebrations, it finally arrived.  The long-awaited determination from the IRS – we were granted formal Internal Revenue Code Section 501(c)(3) tax-exempt public charity status! Although I had a smirk of sorts on my face, a lump began to swell in my throat.  Now it was time to see if we could make good on the promise we made to countless unwitting cancer patients.

Fundraising, right?!?!  A charity cannot be successful without money to get started.  But the world was just reaching coronavirus “stability” status, inflation was rising and people were not working.  My anxiety about this dream was escalating.  How will we raise money in this atmosphere?  Will patients reach out for help or will they be reluctant, like I was?  Will people volunteer their time?  Is the majority still concerned about COVD?  With all of these questions looming, we set the date for our first in-person fundraiser.

Once word of the fundraiser hit the airwaves, friends and family – the “others” – once again began offering their own time and resources.  I began to feel some relief, some hope.  And then it happened.  My brother, who had volunteered to be the fundraising chairman for this event, sent me a text.  A stranger (to us) reached out to say that she loved what we are doing and wanted to make a contribution on behalf of her corporation.  As tears filled my eyes I typed, “I think I might cry.  This is a thing!” to which he said, “It is indeed.  We’re gonna make it a bigger thing.” 

I sat alone in my office, letting the warmth and joy of this unforeseen catharsis wash over me.  This dream being realized was the end of the trail.  YOU . . . THIS is what the last two years of my life have been about.  I found hope on this odyssey.  Hope that cancer CAN’T defeat me so that I CAN give hope to others.  I look forward to continuing this infinite circle of hope with your help!

BELIEVE. FIGHT. HEAL. HELP.