Every Wednesday, I listen. I volunteer to do this. There is a manual with instructions on good practice, rules to follow, suggested words to say and not say.
It turns out people who call do not care about instructions. What instruction can predict what one will wonder once the Before Cancer/After Cancer switch has flipped? The BC side before someone is told to hurry in, “SOMETHING is suspicious in a picture; odd in a drop of blood”; the AC side when they hear that the SOMETHING is foreign, dangerous, life threatening.
The flipped switch brings a new set of eyes that see fear; a new set of ears, hearing an alarm.
These new eyes and ears see harsh rays for scans, hear beeping from antagonizing machines.
They catch the tongue, preventing it from saying the terrifying words this new seeing and hearing brings.
People call, ask to speak to someone who has been there, who will go into the deep end with them. They have quickly figured out that telling a family member or friend what they are seeing and hearing brings words that do not tell the truth they need.
I am the stranger they seek for listening, another human on a similar journey who has had her switch flipped too. I am a voice that answers when they want big honesty, a being who lives in those same uncertain places, who has walked in their shoes and is somehow still walking.
Because of that, I am not a stranger after all.
This is what they tell me, ask me, because mostly they have questions.
First, “This is how it happened.”
Then, “How many days in the hospital? What will happen when I get home?”
Very soon: “How hard will this be?”
“ How will I take care of my family?”
“How do I tell people?”
“How can I get everyone to stop calling?”
“ Will I be able to work?””
Frequently, “My hair, my hair! What about my hair?”
“ Sex! Sex! What about sex?”
Often, “When will I know it is gone forever?”
“ Will it ever be gone forever?”
Mostly, “How do I keep living?”
“ Will I live?”
“ I’m afraid.”
“Are you still afraid?”
This is what I tell them:
“I live with these questions too. This is what I know for now:”
“Do the things you loved before the switch flipped, perhaps a different version for some.”
“Do a few new things too, if only from a bed or chair.”
“Take a walk, talk to a stranger, buy that hat, get a fierce wig, OR flaunt your shiny dome like
a hipster.”
“Write a poem! Eat that piece of cake. If you get the chance, have sex.”
“Pray.”
“Give yourself permission to have a bad day. Don’t let anybody stop you. You earned it.”
“Sit with fear like you sit with joy. Feel both. Then, shout it out. Write it down. Paint it.
Sing and dance it. When you are too sick, imagine it.”
“Make every day an act of defiance. That is how you will know you are still alive. That is how
you will keep on living.”
This is what I learn from them. When the switch flips, we are on a journey together, backpack filled with all the questions, worries, and medical treatments that flatten us.
When we get to the first stop, we learn we can’t go on if we carry everything we thought we needed. When we wonder what to put down, we ask a fellow traveler who is further down the road, who reaches back to bring us along and tells us what to leave behind.
Together, our new eyes and ears discover a way to see a bright beam, hear a sweet note, plant a flag that marks the spot between the knowing and the not knowing, where the words don’t catch,
comfortable with uncertainty in each other’s company, vulnerable yet safe.
Every Wednesday, I listen. I find another traveler, and together, we heal.