Telling those that matter...
I have cancer.
I have malignant colorectal cancer.
I am 55 and I have malignant colorectal cancer.
I am 55, so 10 year survival statistics only get me to 65.
That's the way my mind worked when I got my results. It was too big, too significant to swallow all at once. "If you're going to eat an elephant, start with one ear!"; that's what someone I used to work with would say when tackling a big issue. I thought it was an odd metaphor then - I mean, is eating an elephant really so commonplace that it could help people understand how to tackle a difficult task? I still think that it's an odd metaphor... but it is appropriate. Having a diagnosis of malignant cancer is a lot like having to eat an elephant.
It's too big to cope with all at once.
I have cancer. My mind kept swirling back to that.
As hard as it was for me to grapple with it, I also knew that there were many, many people I needed to tell. I sometimes think of the people in my life as being positioned around me in concentric circles based on my emotional connection to them. The closest circle matters most, the next one out a little less and so on all the way out to neighbours and casual acquaintances. Not everyone in those circles had to know, but my own ethics and the way I live my life meant that I had to tell the ones in everything but the outermost circle directly.
But how?
In the smallest, innermost circle are my wife and children. A diagnosis of cancer can be devastating as it conjures up all sorts of horror stories of pain and death and loss and grieving. The way my health journey affects me will also affect them most closely. So telling them properly was the most important task I faced.
My wife is also a health professional and knows the realities of my good prognosis as well as I do. She is actually the one who retrieved the voicemail that our GP left on our landline, and she already had come to the conclusion that I must have some form of cancer five days before I was able to talk to my GP about my results. We talked - a lot - about what the results might be and what that might mean to each of us. We held each other and we cried and we supported each other. As we talked about our fears and our feelings and what we meant to each other, we drew strength from each other. She is amazing, and falling in love with her was the best thing that ever happened to me. It was so much better than my potential diagnosis was bad that it would be a dishonour to my love for her if I were to let my diagnosis define even a minute of our time together. We told each other everything - what we found as we researched colorectal cancer, what my specialists were telling me in my consults, what it is like for me to do a different preparation for a bowel procedure. Telling her about my diagnosis and treatment options is as natural as breathing or walking.
My son and his wife live in a suite in our house. We generally see them every day. Our daughter lives on their own not far from our house. We don't see her as often but we still see her at least once a week. We wanted to tell them all right away, but we wanted to tell them facts and not hearsay. We kept the guesses we were making about my diagnosis from our kids until I got my results from our GP, then we told them immediately and directly. They reacted... well, exactly the way I would have guessed they would react.
My son and daughter-in-law are tender, loving people who lead with their emotions. They both hugged me immediately and told me that they loved me. They cried a little and I cried a little and we all said we'd get through this together. They didn't ask about survival rates or treatment options or whether I would have to have chemotherapy. They focused on their feelings; there was plenty of time to find out the facts later.
My daughter is also very loving and tender but approaches life in a much more pragmatic way. When she was twelve, she changed the way she approached tackling difficult subjects with my wife and I. Prior to that, she would start out with can we talk? After that she changed to I need to tell you something because can we talk? suggested that my wife and I might be able to change their mind. I adore my daughter's strength and admire her independence and integrity, so I took a page out of her book when I drove her home from work one night. I stopped the car and turned to her and looked her in the eye.
"I need to tell you something."
She listened carefully to me as I relayed my results. She nodded as I described that this sort of cancer was considered curable and not just treatable. She asked what she could do to help and if there was anything I needed. She wanted to know if I was having any symptoms and what the surgical options were. Then my daughter hugged me and told me that they loved me. She looked me straight in the eye for a moment, connecting with me the same way we had so many times before throughout our lives.
"We're going to get through this together."
That. So much that. That is why I need to tell people about my diagnosis - so we can get through it together.
After my core family came the next closest group - my mother and my sisters. This one was harder, but mostly because I wanted to make sure I had facts to tell them rather than guesses. You see, my father died of lung cancer when he was 47 and so not surprisingly cancer has a pretty significant and personal impact on all of us. Telling them that now I had cancer would be hard and needed to be done carefully.
I wanted to tell them in person. I needed to tell them in person. I needed to see their faces, to read their expressions, to be able to hold them and assure them that everything would be okay (because it will be okay). But I live in a different city from them, nearly 4 hours in an airplane away. And given the fact that my surgeon wanted to operate as soon as possible I would probably not be able to make this happen. Telling them over the phone would be hard, but it was the next best option. The talk went something like this;
Me: "I need to tell you something. I've been diagnosed with malignant colorectal cancer. It was caught early, as part of screening, and it is considered curable in my case. I don't have a date for my surgery yet but it will be soon. I wanted to tell you in person, but there just wasn't time."
Them: "Oh. Are you OK? How's Donna? Is there anything we can do?" And, of course, "We'll get through this together."
Together.
I made a list of other people to tell. Close friends, colleagues, people that have gone through tough times with me in the past. People that I needed to tell face-to-face. I made a list because, frankly, the stress of everything I was going through was making it hard to remember who I had told and who I had not. I tried to let the conversations occur organically - as our busy lives brought us together - but it became obvious pretty quickly that this was not going to be possible. If I wanted to tell them in person, I needed to make it happen.
"I need to see you. I have some news."
Virtually everyone knew that something bad would follow. But I told them (and still believe) that the news I had to share was not nearly as bad as their fears.
I hit the same high notes - or low notes, I suppose - in each conversation. I've been diagnosed with malignant colorectal cancer. It was caught early. Screening is really important. It's curable. I still have some diagnostics to undergo. I will need surgery. Soon. Very soon. It was emotionally exhausting but I felt better each time I told a person that matters in my life. Seeing the caring on their face, accepting their hugs, even sharing tears reminded me that there are and always have been an army of people around me that I think are pretty wonderful and that care about me more than I sometimes think. They all asked about Donna and they all asked what they could do to help and they all said that they knew I would get through this.
In an ideal world, I would have told my story to every person with whom I have a relation. That's not possible, of course, so technology would have to do.
I wrote a broadcast email to my colleagues at work, telling them the news and that I would get through this. Part of my motivation was to show my respect for them, but admittedly part of my motivation was also to try to cut down on rumours by getting the facts out there early. So many of the people on the broadcast - an astonishing number, really - contacted me to tell me how shocked they were but how they knew I would get through this because of my positivity and my strength. I was touched again by how many people reached out to express their caring and concern, and how the message spread to others that I frankly had no idea would care. Each phone call, each email response filled my heart with warmth.
I sent text messages to a few friends who live in other time zones or who I thought an email was too impersonal. "Hey - I have some news to share with you. Can I give you a call?" When they responded I would tell them my story and they would tell me the same things I have heard from so many others. And their names and emotional support would get added to my virtual wall of honour, the incredible list of people that are important in my life.
People that matter.
Don't wait to tell people that matter things that matter. Don't wait until something like malignant colorectal cancer enters your life.
Tell them that they matter.
You will be surprised how great it will make you feel.
I have malignant colorectal cancer.
I am 55 and I have malignant colorectal cancer.
I am 55, so 10 year survival statistics only get me to 65.
That's the way my mind worked when I got my results. It was too big, too significant to swallow all at once. "If you're going to eat an elephant, start with one ear!"; that's what someone I used to work with would say when tackling a big issue. I thought it was an odd metaphor then - I mean, is eating an elephant really so commonplace that it could help people understand how to tackle a difficult task? I still think that it's an odd metaphor... but it is appropriate. Having a diagnosis of malignant cancer is a lot like having to eat an elephant.
It's too big to cope with all at once.
I have cancer. My mind kept swirling back to that.
As hard as it was for me to grapple with it, I also knew that there were many, many people I needed to tell. I sometimes think of the people in my life as being positioned around me in concentric circles based on my emotional connection to them. The closest circle matters most, the next one out a little less and so on all the way out to neighbours and casual acquaintances. Not everyone in those circles had to know, but my own ethics and the way I live my life meant that I had to tell the ones in everything but the outermost circle directly.
But how?
In the smallest, innermost circle are my wife and children. A diagnosis of cancer can be devastating as it conjures up all sorts of horror stories of pain and death and loss and grieving. The way my health journey affects me will also affect them most closely. So telling them properly was the most important task I faced.
My wife is also a health professional and knows the realities of my good prognosis as well as I do. She is actually the one who retrieved the voicemail that our GP left on our landline, and she already had come to the conclusion that I must have some form of cancer five days before I was able to talk to my GP about my results. We talked - a lot - about what the results might be and what that might mean to each of us. We held each other and we cried and we supported each other. As we talked about our fears and our feelings and what we meant to each other, we drew strength from each other. She is amazing, and falling in love with her was the best thing that ever happened to me. It was so much better than my potential diagnosis was bad that it would be a dishonour to my love for her if I were to let my diagnosis define even a minute of our time together. We told each other everything - what we found as we researched colorectal cancer, what my specialists were telling me in my consults, what it is like for me to do a different preparation for a bowel procedure. Telling her about my diagnosis and treatment options is as natural as breathing or walking.
My son and his wife live in a suite in our house. We generally see them every day. Our daughter lives on their own not far from our house. We don't see her as often but we still see her at least once a week. We wanted to tell them all right away, but we wanted to tell them facts and not hearsay. We kept the guesses we were making about my diagnosis from our kids until I got my results from our GP, then we told them immediately and directly. They reacted... well, exactly the way I would have guessed they would react.
My son and daughter-in-law are tender, loving people who lead with their emotions. They both hugged me immediately and told me that they loved me. They cried a little and I cried a little and we all said we'd get through this together. They didn't ask about survival rates or treatment options or whether I would have to have chemotherapy. They focused on their feelings; there was plenty of time to find out the facts later.
My daughter is also very loving and tender but approaches life in a much more pragmatic way. When she was twelve, she changed the way she approached tackling difficult subjects with my wife and I. Prior to that, she would start out with can we talk? After that she changed to I need to tell you something because can we talk? suggested that my wife and I might be able to change their mind. I adore my daughter's strength and admire her independence and integrity, so I took a page out of her book when I drove her home from work one night. I stopped the car and turned to her and looked her in the eye.
"I need to tell you something."
She listened carefully to me as I relayed my results. She nodded as I described that this sort of cancer was considered curable and not just treatable. She asked what she could do to help and if there was anything I needed. She wanted to know if I was having any symptoms and what the surgical options were. Then my daughter hugged me and told me that they loved me. She looked me straight in the eye for a moment, connecting with me the same way we had so many times before throughout our lives.
"We're going to get through this together."
That. So much that. That is why I need to tell people about my diagnosis - so we can get through it together.
After my core family came the next closest group - my mother and my sisters. This one was harder, but mostly because I wanted to make sure I had facts to tell them rather than guesses. You see, my father died of lung cancer when he was 47 and so not surprisingly cancer has a pretty significant and personal impact on all of us. Telling them that now I had cancer would be hard and needed to be done carefully.
I wanted to tell them in person. I needed to tell them in person. I needed to see their faces, to read their expressions, to be able to hold them and assure them that everything would be okay (because it will be okay). But I live in a different city from them, nearly 4 hours in an airplane away. And given the fact that my surgeon wanted to operate as soon as possible I would probably not be able to make this happen. Telling them over the phone would be hard, but it was the next best option. The talk went something like this;
Me: "I need to tell you something. I've been diagnosed with malignant colorectal cancer. It was caught early, as part of screening, and it is considered curable in my case. I don't have a date for my surgery yet but it will be soon. I wanted to tell you in person, but there just wasn't time."
Them: "Oh. Are you OK? How's Donna? Is there anything we can do?" And, of course, "We'll get through this together."
Together.
I made a list of other people to tell. Close friends, colleagues, people that have gone through tough times with me in the past. People that I needed to tell face-to-face. I made a list because, frankly, the stress of everything I was going through was making it hard to remember who I had told and who I had not. I tried to let the conversations occur organically - as our busy lives brought us together - but it became obvious pretty quickly that this was not going to be possible. If I wanted to tell them in person, I needed to make it happen.
"I need to see you. I have some news."
Virtually everyone knew that something bad would follow. But I told them (and still believe) that the news I had to share was not nearly as bad as their fears.
I hit the same high notes - or low notes, I suppose - in each conversation. I've been diagnosed with malignant colorectal cancer. It was caught early. Screening is really important. It's curable. I still have some diagnostics to undergo. I will need surgery. Soon. Very soon. It was emotionally exhausting but I felt better each time I told a person that matters in my life. Seeing the caring on their face, accepting their hugs, even sharing tears reminded me that there are and always have been an army of people around me that I think are pretty wonderful and that care about me more than I sometimes think. They all asked about Donna and they all asked what they could do to help and they all said that they knew I would get through this.
In an ideal world, I would have told my story to every person with whom I have a relation. That's not possible, of course, so technology would have to do.
I wrote a broadcast email to my colleagues at work, telling them the news and that I would get through this. Part of my motivation was to show my respect for them, but admittedly part of my motivation was also to try to cut down on rumours by getting the facts out there early. So many of the people on the broadcast - an astonishing number, really - contacted me to tell me how shocked they were but how they knew I would get through this because of my positivity and my strength. I was touched again by how many people reached out to express their caring and concern, and how the message spread to others that I frankly had no idea would care. Each phone call, each email response filled my heart with warmth.
I sent text messages to a few friends who live in other time zones or who I thought an email was too impersonal. "Hey - I have some news to share with you. Can I give you a call?" When they responded I would tell them my story and they would tell me the same things I have heard from so many others. And their names and emotional support would get added to my virtual wall of honour, the incredible list of people that are important in my life.
People that matter.
Don't wait to tell people that matter things that matter. Don't wait until something like malignant colorectal cancer enters your life.
Tell them that they matter.
You will be surprised how great it will make you feel.
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