A few hours ago, I talked with an old friend of mine about his wife, who has metastatic breast cancer of the bones. He’s a writer of some note, though I met him long before his career-defining (or deadening; he might accept either one or both…) short story, then a novel that won a prestigious SF award. His career seemed to be on a meteoric rise.
And then it wasn’t and now, despite the story and the award-winning novel, he really doesn’t write fiction much anymore. He focuses on writers like me, who may or may not be “up-and-coming” (at the ripe old age of sixty-four). At any rate, cancer, in our respective wife’s cases, is no respecter of persons.
In fact, you might say that breast cancer is anti-personnel. Like a mine, it can be laid on a road that appears perfectly clear. It can be laid in a rice paddy or a corn field used by villagers or tourists, by an enemy soldier or a friendly soldier or someone out to wreak havoc and sow terror.
Her bone cancer has receded and surged; she’s been declared cancer-free and then informed that the cancer had returned. My friend is retired from his regular job now, so he spend six hours a day doing a medication infusion; another six hours a day cleaning, keeping house, comforting friends and relatives, and feeding himself. Absolutely, he has help. Absolutely others are terrified of the return of breast cancer…
He sleeps about five hours a day, and the rest of life occupies the other seven hours doing everything else that needs doing (like building a ramp into their home with his son) – and running an online magazine called STUPEFYING STORIES.
I met my friend long before he’d started SS, in a writer’s group. We worked together while he was becoming famous, and then parted ways for various adventures. We reconnected several years later when I stumbled across one of his early blogs. I started contributing, and we became friends again. Then I called him one day to tell him that my wife had been diagnosed with breast cancer.
And then it wasn’t and now, despite the story and the award-winning novel, he really doesn’t write fiction much anymore. He focuses on writers like me, who may or may not be “up-and-coming” (at the ripe old age of sixty-four). At any rate, cancer, in our respective wife’s cases, is no respecter of persons.
In fact, you might say that breast cancer is anti-personnel. Like a mine, it can be laid on a road that appears perfectly clear. It can be laid in a rice paddy or a corn field used by villagers or tourists, by an enemy soldier or a friendly soldier or someone out to wreak havoc and sow terror.
Her bone cancer has receded and surged; she’s been declared cancer-free and then informed that the cancer had returned. My friend is retired from his regular job now, so he spend six hours a day doing a medication infusion; another six hours a day cleaning, keeping house, comforting friends and relatives, and feeding himself. Absolutely, he has help. Absolutely others are terrified of the return of breast cancer…
He sleeps about five hours a day, and the rest of life occupies the other seven hours doing everything else that needs doing (like building a ramp into their home with his son) – and running an online magazine called STUPEFYING STORIES.
I met my friend long before he’d started SS, in a writer’s group. We worked together while he was becoming famous, and then parted ways for various adventures. We reconnected several years later when I stumbled across one of his early blogs. I started contributing, and we became friends again. Then I called him one day to tell him that my wife had been diagnosed with breast cancer.
He told me that his wife had been diagnosed with breast cancer several months earlier, but being a private person, he told people on a need-to-know basis. Our pain bonded us, and we’ve been in touch ever since. I was a slush-pile reader for his magazine and even wrote a story for the very first issue…
So…while waiting in the hospital for a checkup and his wife’s treatment, he posted a picture and asked if anyone was interested in writing a story using it as an inspiration. I saw it, and after two hours, I had a story. I submitted it, and instead of the regular email accepting it, I got a call from an unknown caller last night.
He left a message, and when I recognized it as my friend, I called him back immediately. He liked the story and wanted to publish it today. Once we’d chatted about that, I asked how his wife was doing.
The conversation turned serious as only a conversation between two people who intimately understand the horror of breast cancer can run. I finished by saying, “All I can say is that we’re praying for the two of you. I can’t offer anything else. It’s just our prayers.”
He said, “But you have. You wrote the story. It’s a good story. You did that and it made me feel good.” We said our goodbyes and the next day, I wrote this entry.
Ultimately, this whole story was all about one thing: when you talk to someone whose loved one is suffering from breast cancer – or any cancer – you don’t offer platitudes or encouragement or anything else tangible. You offer yourself; your care; your heart; and (yes), your love. It’s all we have in the closest parts of our hearts, and sometimes, it’s just what they – or we – needed.
The story that came from his suggestion: http://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2021/08/doctor-to-undead-by-guy-stewart.html
Image: http://wrex.images.worldnow.com/images/23784252_SA.jpg
So…while waiting in the hospital for a checkup and his wife’s treatment, he posted a picture and asked if anyone was interested in writing a story using it as an inspiration. I saw it, and after two hours, I had a story. I submitted it, and instead of the regular email accepting it, I got a call from an unknown caller last night.
He left a message, and when I recognized it as my friend, I called him back immediately. He liked the story and wanted to publish it today. Once we’d chatted about that, I asked how his wife was doing.
The conversation turned serious as only a conversation between two people who intimately understand the horror of breast cancer can run. I finished by saying, “All I can say is that we’re praying for the two of you. I can’t offer anything else. It’s just our prayers.”
He said, “But you have. You wrote the story. It’s a good story. You did that and it made me feel good.” We said our goodbyes and the next day, I wrote this entry.
Ultimately, this whole story was all about one thing: when you talk to someone whose loved one is suffering from breast cancer – or any cancer – you don’t offer platitudes or encouragement or anything else tangible. You offer yourself; your care; your heart; and (yes), your love. It’s all we have in the closest parts of our hearts, and sometimes, it’s just what they – or we – needed.
The story that came from his suggestion: http://stupefyingstories.blogspot.com/2021/08/doctor-to-undead-by-guy-stewart.html
Image: http://wrex.images.worldnow.com/images/23784252_SA.jpg
