“You have cancer,” the doctor says.
For a moment, the only sound you hear is your heartbeat thrumming much too loudly in your ears.
“How bad is it?”
The doctor’s sincere stare unnerves you.
“Randy, it’s bad.”
This is the exact conversation held last week in the physician’s office between my husband and his doctor. Nothing can prepare you to hear those words. Within seconds, your life has changed.
Minutes later, you’re holding a handful of papers: pamphlets, orders, biopsy results, a CD with photos of the cancer, even the doctor’s personal cell-phone number. It’s pressing toward 5:00 pm, so you’re rushed to the clinic to pick up contrast liquid for tomorrow morning’s CT scan. Drink this. Don’t eat that. Call this number to arrange a consultation with the radiologist. Call this number to arrange a consultation with the surgeon.
Somewhere in there, you remember that you haven’t eaten since breakfast.
*
It’s an understatement to say that my husband and I were caught up in an immediate whirlwind—perhaps tornado is a better metaphor—within minutes of his diagnosis. We cried for a few minutes, but there were simply too many deadlines to meet to cope with the flood of emotions, questions, and next steps for tears just then.
And we needed to tell our son.
How do you break such news to an eighteen-year-old who is a day away from final exams? How do you risk discoloring what should be the happiest time of his life—his high-school graduation—which is only a week away?
When we arrived home that evening, our son was at work, so our decision to wait until after he’d completed his exams the next day was made easier. But in the meantime, we began receiving phone calls from concerned relatives who knew we were to receive the biopsy results—which we’d been convinced were going to be benign—that day.
We broke the news to immediate relatives who called, adding the admonition, “Please don’t say anything to anyone yet, as we can’t tell our son until tomorrow afternoon.” Besides, we’d have the result of the CT scan by then, so we’d know exactly what to tell him.
Relaying this news once is painful. Two or three times is agonizing, but having to say “aggressive cancer” five or six times is excruciating.
Bad news travels fast, and in a small town, it spreads like . . . malignancy.
By the time we received the results of the CT scan the next afternoon, our phones were blowing up. We shared the news with our son and discussed our next options and plan of attack. One day at a time. We will kick this!
As our home and cell phones kept ringing, we realized we had to get ahead of this, and we certainly had to free up the phone lines, as we were expecting calls from doctors and hospitals. Though we’d first said we’d never put such news on social media, we realized we had no other option—if not, someone would likely do it for us and perhaps not with the kind of message we wanted to convey.
That evening, we requested on Facebook the support, prayers, and love of our friends and family as we fight the battles before us in order to win this war. We anticipated dozens of responses, but we were truly humbled by the hundreds we received. The outpouring of love touches out hearts and does much to strengthen our faith and hope.
And then came the other comments: the scoldings via IM or text or phone. “Why didn’t you call me right away?” “Why did I have to read this on Facebook?” “So-and-so told me. You should have called me yourself!”
Hear me when I say this: it’s not about you.
It’s about the patient. And more remotely, it’s about his children and his wife and his parents and his siblings.
We’ll be the first to agree that Facebook isn’t the best place to break such news, but in order to maintain some semblance of sanity during an insane period of our lives, it seemed the logical option; the quickest and least-painful way to say those words once instead of dozens more times.
Worse than the scoldings, however, was the IM from an old friend who related the same diagnosis in her church member, and how the cancer had metastasized and invaded other parts of the body, and how he would soon surely die. I stopped her short between messages: “No negativity, please. We are surrounding ourselves with positive vibes, positive thoughts, prayers, and positive people. Faith, hope, and love.” It startled and appalled me several minutes later when she returned an I-wasn’t-finished-yet-here’s-where-else-he-had-tumors message. A few days later, I listened (briefly, before walking away), as someone else tried to tell me a horror story of another person with a similar diagnosis and rotten outcome.
Listen carefully: when you’ve learned that a friend or family member has cancer, if you can’t offer supportive, kind, uplifting, encouraging, loving, or compassionate words, then Shut. The fuck. Up.
Yes, I said that; and yes, I meant it.
I’m grateful to say that these kinds of comments have been few among the deluge of caring and encouraging, love-filled messages we’ve received. The sensitivity and compassion of our family and friends who have rallied around us have helped strengthen our resolve to face each morning and each long, sometimes-scary night with steadfast hope and faith.
Understand that, in the days that follow a cancer diagnosis, a person’s day-to-day life and that of his family is turned upside down and shaken. It’s easy to momentarily forget to call even the dearest of friends. Don’t be offended if, in the great confusion of the days following such news, you feel forgotten, and please don’t be offended if you (aren’t an immediate family member and you) learn such news through social media. Know that your friend still needs you—now more than ever before.
You don’t have to be Shakespeare to send an “I care” note to a friend who’s dealing with a devastating diagnosis; you simply have to be kind. Your friend needs you to remind him or her that there is hope in each new day. Put yourself in that person’s mindset for a moment, and think of what positive things you’d like to hear. Send warm thoughts and well wishes. Light a candle, and say a prayer (or twelve).
And if you have a spare moment, please say another for us.
” . . . but the greatest of these is love.” –I Cor. 13:13 (ESV)
Hi Rhonda. As I read what you wrote it took me back in time and I could feel every emotion. I walked the same path but it was my son who was in his first year of college that was diagnosed instead of my husband. I pray for you and your family. So glad we met up on here with our Browning name connection. One day at a time is all we can do. Healing Prayers for Randy. ❤
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Oh, my, Dixi! I’m so sorry! Thank you for your prayers. I’ll be sure I’m returning them!
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My heart and prayers are with you and Randy and your son–and all family members. I am here if you want to talk. I love you!
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Thank you, Liat! I know you understand. We appreciate your prayers! ❤
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Very WELL said!! Miracles happen everyday! You got this!! Love and lots of prayers!
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Prayers, love, and hope for those miracles (faith, hope, love!) are getting us through. Thank you for all those things! ❤
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Rhonda ,I am so sad to hear this breaking news from you and your family. i am personally asking God for all the blessings you and Randy needs. In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen
All positive vibes now and always.
Hugs and lots of prayers, Love, Carolyn
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Many thanks for your prayers! ❤ So grateful!
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Praying for Randy, his Dr.’s, you and Jake. Stay positive. Not everyday can be great, but you can find something great in everyday. Love you!
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What great advice, Rachelle! Thank you for your prayers! ❤
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Sending hugs, love, and prayers! Take care of your family. All that’s important now. Blessings, Barb
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Thank you for all those things, Barb! ❤
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Much love to you and your family, Rhonda. We haven’t known each other that long, but I am always here for you. I’ll be thinking of you guys.
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Thank you, roomie! We truly appreciate your support! ❤
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I’m always here for you and thinking of you.
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Prayers your way from Bluefield, VA. Best wishes to all.
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That’s not so far in spirit, Hoog. Thank you! Love to you and Ginny! Y’all keep fighting the good fight! ❤
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Mo & I send you & your family our thoughts, prayers, and hope for all the strength you need (and then some). Randy is a tough nut, and you’re an uncommon force of strength. Lean on each other & know that you are loved and supported by many.
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Thank you, Rebecca! It’s good to hear from you and Mo. Your prayers are appreciated!
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Yes i can relate to this because it happened to me in February 2016 and it does change your life in just a few minutes….. I didn’t know about you being an author great job
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Fight HARD, Tim! There’s strength in numbers, and we’re fighting alongside you. We’ve got this! ❤
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Beautifully written, Rhonda. I couldn’t agree more. The best help you can have is for a friend to hold your hand or hug you all and shut the fuck up–now two of us have said it.
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LOL I love you! ❤
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Dear friend, I will keep you and Randy in my prayers. Keep writing. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that really helps.
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Thank you so much! I sincerely appreciate your kind encouragement!
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That was a powerful piece of writing Rhonda. Having gone through this myself it brought it all back to me. Know that we are all praying for you guys. Stay strong!!!! Sending your beautiful family loving, healing thoughts!
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Thank you, Kathy! ❤ We sincerely appreciate your prayers and encouragement.
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Rhonda! Absolutely beautifully written and oh so true. We love you all!
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Love you, too, Ginny! Keep fighting, my friend! ❤
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Beautifully written. I had many of the same thoughts when I was diagnosed. The best thing is to deal with those negative comments directly and clearly. Honestly, some reactions from people are so perplexing!! God Bless you and your husband.
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Thank you for your kindness, Gail. It means so much! I hope you’re well beyond your diagnosis and healed or healing quickly. God bless you and yours, too!
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Very well said, Rhonda. I think everyone needs to hear these words. And know you’re in my prayers. Constantly.
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Thank you so much, Sandy! ❤
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