Evan sat holding his dad on the couch. Like quiet can convey “I’m with you” often better than words can, touch holds the same power. At this moment, there were both.

As a family, our typical dynamic is played out in acts of service; our time together is spent doing projects for one another, preparing thoughtful meals, and having conversations on small-town gossip, politics, or sports. The craving for this simplicity is what took us the hours north this week to be with Evan’s folks. A place of peace, I can rely on my choice of comfy recliners, giant home-cooked meals, the seasonal decor of fall-themed quilts, tchotchkes, and books, and our hours spent flipping between MSNBC, ESPN, and Gunsmoke reruns while reading one another bits from the many local newspaper selections. Uncomplicated, we can be together with ease.

Then again, none of us have had the worst year of our life in this space before. Cancer consumed our year; Evan was present with me in mine, and Colette, Evan’s mom, was present with Dave in his. I was getting chemo while he drove to Mayo Clinic for radiation. Both of us checking in after appointments - how did it go? Are you okay? Any new information? We kept it logistical, and so did they, steering clear of detailing the whirlwind of navigating the health care system and the emotional coaster ride that is part of the cancer package.

We are both done with treatment, and something new is happening. Stepping back from the day-to-day grind of sickness, we can see the landscape of what has happened to us. Like frightened animals, we’re both peaking out behind our safe perches to watch if the coast is clear. Our ears are more perked up than ever, listening, watching for signs that it’s okay to resume life again. Bodies ravaged from treatment, minds unraveling what has happened, new symptoms are manifesting where it’s difficult to discern them as stress-related, cancer-related, or normal evidence of the aftermath—small, quivering aftershocks from the seismic quake of our lives in 2022.

The dynamic is shifting now. As clunky and ill-equipped as I felt after being in a relationship with people a certain way for 13+ years, being a family who acknowledges the aftershocks and holds one another in loving stillness is another taste of beauty in the shit sandwich of this year. “The only people who really know what we’ve been through are Mom and the people in this room,” I whispered through the quiet, “we have to see each other through this. We will get through this.”

THIS. THIS living with cancer and picking up the pieces afterward. Some friends have been close, taking the calls in the real darkness, knowing the details of my appointments on Thursdays, what my bloodwork showed, and what that means. Some time when I can wrap my arms around the words for what these caregivers have meant to this experience to my survival, I will write a proper tribute to them. The whole point of this writing, this chronicle, beyond history for my own remembering, has been to wrap my arms around you, to bring you closer to the life of a chronically ill person, both the outer and inner worlds. If there is meaning in any of this, I think this writing will be it. There is so much I wish others knew about how to suffer and how to care for others who are suffering.

While far from comprehensive, below are a few of those things I wish others knew about living life with (and beyond the treatment for) cancer:

How it never ends. How it will always be just a whisper away.

How simple desires become. How the clutter of things fades away and the noise of just being quiets. The sound of a breeze through the trees. The taste of ice cream. Waking to a new day with the same familiar view. The smiling faces of those you love. This is all you’ll want. How living is enough.

How God is suddenly everywhere, in everything. The ice cream cone and the breeze are in the spaces between you and me. It’s a God that transcends belief, dogma, and denomination. The voice comes from inside the house, from within, easing, holding, and pumping out love.

How relentless the pain can be and how quickly you adjust to it.

How it’s usually easier not to look back, especially at old pictures, when you had good hair and life was laid out in organized plans.

How the preferred conversations are about the real-life ugly, hilarious, awkward, profound, gross, or difficult - and how mundane conversations around body weight/diet preferences, gossip from work, and home improvement projects become.

How many hours you’ll spend in waiting rooms.

How it is never not creepy to have your chest port punctured with a needle.

How people will fade out of your life, losing interest, not knowing what to say or what to do, and how some people, sometimes the ones you would never expect, keep showing up again and again. How, eventually, you’ll be at peace with and understanding of both.

How much conflicting advice exists and how it can consume your life. How badly you’ll want to do it “right.”

How dependent you become on caregivers and how few accolades, love, and attention they receive or ask for.

How terrifying the idea of an emergency room becomes.

How accosting trauma, grief, and fear can feel. How it comes from nowhere and leaves on its own time. With it can come its own set of physical symptoms. The body keeps score.

How it becomes necessary to have an escape plan for all situations in case trauma and/or pain takes over.

How impossible, almost silly, planning becomes.

How saline tastes in your mouth.

How badly, desperately, painfully you want to live. How you beg for it, cry for it, pray for it, dream about it. How you make vision boards, buy crystals, read books, and seek out stories of those who beat the odds. How close death feels and how young you still feel; how the two don’t match.

How tragic it is, how much you wish for just a few days everyone could feel how it feels. How much that could change the world into a more beautiful place.

How even the darkest, most isolating, painful, relentlessly challenging moments, days, weeks, months, or years are the most revealing, clarifying, connected, bursting with love and gratitude, profoundly beautiful moments, days, weeks, and months. How they can be, and always will be, both at once - and how both can be held at once and be true.

I guess the family calendar will be mostly cat pictures this year instead of the typical “happy outings in scenic places” vibe of years past. But…we’ll know. We are all still in it to the point that I cannot name the era we’re in or see a way out of it, even if I did want to escape. As each day brings more strength, as I face my first PET scan in a few weeks and my 42nd birthday a few weeks after, the only goal I have is the same word I would use if asked to summarize this whole shebang: acceptance. So, I’ll keep writing in the hopes that it touches and informs, and helps me process. I’ll keep checking and listening to my body to see what she wants/needs. And I’ll have my arms wide open to sitting with anyone who needs to be felt by a fellow “it getter,” a battle buddy in pain and celebration.

I’m with you.

What I wish others knew about cancer.

Influences, poetry, and an update

You’re alive. Act like it.