Three Lonely Minutes

Post #3 in Cancer Culture

Cancer is a lonely business. Despite other people going through something similar; despite the family at your side; despite the friends checking in; despite the onslaught of well-wishing messages; despite the seemingly never ending parade of prepared foods and desserts appearing on your doorstep. Despite all this – there is still loneliness.

There is no helping this loneliness. It is an undeniable, unfixable, horrible byproduct of a serious diagnosis – such as the one I came face to face with a few weeks ago.

In that terrible moment when my doctor looked at me and said: “It’s cancer” – that loneliness began its tormenting countdown. There was a sickly calm that came over me, and an eerie silence followed by a high-pitched whine in my ear – despite the fact that my doctor was still talking. His mouth was moving but I couldn’t make out any of his words.

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Then I felt a soft hand on my shoulder and my husband was standing next to me – his touch reminding me that I wasn’t alone. Not at all. The three minutes were up.

Since that terrible moment, my days have passed. Some have been long and others have been short. Some have been good and others – not so good. But they’ve all been filled with outdoor visits and emails and phone calls; doctor’s appointments and dental appointments; Netflix and Prime and Crave; checking emails, checking Facebook, snooping through my daughter’s TikTok; dog-walking, child walking and friend walking; getting my kids breakfast, making them an odd lunch, heating up dinner (something someone else has graciously prepared and delivered to me).

I am grateful for all this busy-ness – because it means there is no loneliness to my days.

But nighttime tells a different story.

I have been unable to sleep in bed since Easter. The tumour that is aggressively destroying the right side of my face makes that near impossible. Laying down sets my face on fire – at least that’s what it feels like due to the pressure. And while sitting up is the only way for me to secure a solid seven or eight hours of sleep – it just doesn’t happen in bed.

So – eschewing the archetypal “sick bed” – I, instead, have opted for the “sick couch”. Setting up shop on my family room couch going on six weeks ago – this remains my current bunk.

With ottoman pressed up flush and a militant army of pillows, I have created a cocoon so solid and so enveloping, that I have at times, awoken in the middle of the night and actually believed I was lying down. And no matter what you may think – I will tell you that I am comfortable. I am getting some of the best sleep I’ve had in months. And I am not fibbing in the least.

I am fortunate in that I am quick to fall asleep – my cancer diagnosis has thankfully not changed that. Always, if my consciousness hasn’t faded within minutes of my making the decision that it’s time for ‘night night’ – then I simply click on the light and pop on another episode of Golden Girls or pick up my book for another chapter – then repeat the process.

There are several beloved framed photographs resting on my family room mantle – a family portrait and a wedding picture included. In both of these photos, I am smiling at the camera – unaware at the time – that one day in the future, I would be facing these very same photos with a strange jealousy in my heart. How I wish for those two moments again. When everything – though not perfect – was better than now. A time when I had no clue whatsoever that a devastating and soul-crushing diagnosis was hurtling my way with an unstoppable force.

Every night, after I turn off the light, I sit for roughly three minutes, knowing these photos are there watching over me despite the fact they are shrouded in darkness. A younger yet somehow older version of myself is smiling at me – brightly and innocently. A reminder that they are there and I am here. In a way, almost mocking me.

And man – those are three lonely minutes.

Those are three minutes when my mind can easily go to a very dark place. And there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

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That first night – after getting my diagnosis – my husband didn’t want me downstairs, on the family room couch all alone. He wanted me upstairs in bed with him. But I knew if I was to face the next day, I would need a solid night – so the couch it was.

He opted to join me in the family room. He organized a poorly-constructed cocoon on the other end of the couch and after checking to make sure I was okay, promptly fell into a restless and agitated slumber.

His heart was in the right place – too bad his feet weren’t – they kicked me on and off for much of the night. And don’t get me started on his snoring and muttering and the fact that he gives off more heat than a wood-burning stove – turning my family-room haven into a family-room oven.

What he didn’t understand (and what probably most people may not grasp) is that whether he slept on the couch by my side or upstairs in our half-empty king-sized bed, I would have to suffer through my three minutes of loneliness. That wouldn’t change.

I am thankful for a whole lot in my life at this specific time. Right now, I am grateful that it typically only takes me three measly minutes to fall asleep and cap off my day. Not everyone has such luxury.

Maybe tonight – as I sit with my head upright and anchored between pillows – for three lonely minutes, I’ll imagine those smiling images in frames on my mantle – watching over me, taking care of me, emitting a positivity that only the me of the past can imbue the me of the present.

And maybe those three minutes will be a little less lonely tonight.

On Monday April 26, 2021, my life changed forever when I heard the words: “You have cancer.” This blog post is the third in a series entitled: Cancer Culture and revolves around my personal experience surrounding this devastating diagnosis.

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