My sister found out she had cancer, and yet the earth kept turning.
And by sister, I mean twin sister. We had just celebrated our 34th birthday, together, since my family has just moved north and now lived 20 minutes from her. We had just gotten back from spending four days together in Michigan, our families enjoying the lake, the beach, s’mores, and some 24/7 family time that still didn’t seem like enough.
And by our families, I mean my six-year-old son and three-year-old daughter, and her five-year-old daughter and 3-year-old son. All four of whom adore this woman, who half calls her “Mommy” and the other half calls her “aunt.”
Who I call my best friend. My other half. In a funny card sent years ago, my sister-wife. She means so much to me.
On the 31st of July, my 34-year-old powerhouse of a sister went in to the doctor for a scan after a pesky cough that would not quite go away. The scan, read by her first, as she is a medical professional, showed, unmistakably, a large mass behind her sternum. We waited around two weeks to find the diagnosis: Stage 2 Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma. We waited for a sense of normalcy to return. It hasn’t.
Yet the Earth turns. Her daughter started kindergarten. I started a new job. The ins and outs of life with young kids prevail. There’s ballet and rock climbing class. A new church. A change in preschool. And all the while, my sister has cancer.
It’s surreal.
It’s always there, the thought. The worry.
My sister has cancer.
Seems impossible, but the days keep passing. I find my way. My sister finds hers, somehow staying so positive: her mind on four months from now (writing this in September), when her chemo treatments are over; or two months after that, when radiation is over; or eight months from now, when the storm has been weathered. To speak non-metaphorically, when she no longer has cancer.
I have become bigger than myself in this process.
I went on a walk with my son while the sun shone on our neighborhood lake and turtles poked their heads out from their shells while basking on the shore. I told him about cancer, about tumors, about chemo, hair loss, exhaustion, nausea. He held my hand, and I asked him if he had any questions. My blue-eyed boy looked at me and said, “I just feel so sorry for her; she is going through this.” This sentiment is what I keep coming back to. I just feel so sorry for her, for her suffering, for her uncertainty. How she is going through this while those around her, including myself, just keep on doing life, business as usual. The unfairness of this takes my breath away. I am heartbroken, but I am also strong.
In this strength, I have latched onto positivity. I thank God every day for being so close to my sister during this time. I am so grateful for my friends, those close by me and those in the Indianapolis area, who check in on me and just try to be available. There is so much power in a message that just reads, “You are in my thoughts.” I am forever grateful to the one who always tells me: worry accomplishes nothing while authenticating my feelings. My husband’s side of my family has majorly stepped in to provide additional support. Our village is villaging.
All the while, my sister has been a shining light in the darkness of this cancer diagnosis. She asked me to accompany her to get her hair cut off to help her kids transition. We had a great time laughing and joking with her hairstylist and walked away with eight ponytails of 16-inch hair to donate, as well as a striking short haircut that everyone is telling my sister to keep even when her hair is back. I have helped her put her kids to bed, have sat with her on the couch holding onto hope and holding hands after her first chemo treatment, saying little but being there. I have driven her to her appointments. I have cherished every second of being able to be with her, to help her, to try and ease her worries and troubles during this time.
I’m sure I will write many more posts on this subject. Writing helps me process; it helps me to lessen the load on my mind, on my heart.
Please pray for my sister.
She is so loved.
To end on a positive note, my sister has cancer, yet the earth still turns. But every day brings us one day closer to clear scans, a clean bill of health. God willing, we will be there soon.
