“Someone said cancer is overtaking my life,” I typed, sobbing as I messaged my friend, Jess. I thought about sharing more, then erased the words several times. Most of my friends and family don’t understand what this journey is like, especially at this age. Often, I hold back, censoring myself because I don’t want to complain and push people away. It’s a tough place to be, but Jess is around my age, honest, and usually so understanding.
I’ve leaned on her quite a bit, to the point that I felt like I needed additional help; that’s when I started counseling again last year.
“You’d do better in group sessions,” the counselor said after only a few months.
“Why?” I asked. I’ve never had a counselor do something like that before.
“They’d understand your circumstances because they’re going through it too. I know what I’m supposed to say, but I’ve never had terminal cancer… I think you need to talk with people who understand.”
Her honesty was refreshing, despite that I haven’t dared to start group sessions again. I did them a while ago, and many of the terminal patients I met have died, and that's beyond devastating.
“Do I…” I typed the words, so nervous my hands shook. “Do I talk about cancer a lot?” I finally asked Jess something that's worried me for months. If anyone would respond with kindness and reassurance, I thought it would be her.
“If I’m honest,” she wrote back, “you talk about cancer all the time. It’s already hard enough SEEING that you’re suffering, but now your kids and husband hear about it all the time, too. You need to stop letting cancer ruin your life.”
I bawled after that; my face puffed, and my eyes turned red.
Luckily, I’d calmed down when my mom talked with me. “Elisa, you know how I’m playing the drums in that band?”
“Yes,” I said, setting concerns aside and feeling so happy for her. “You guys are awesome!”
“They’ll be over tonight, and they want to meet you.” She paused for effect. “Bill, the lead guitarist, said you're welcome to jam with us.”
So I decided to practice with them, but it was a struggle because I wasn’t feeling my best. “Are you okay?” my mom asked at one point. “Are you in a lot of pain today?”
I shook my head, lying. I’d already felt terrified about oversharing, but after reading the texts from Jess, my fears grew. “I’m great. Really.” But I’m not. I’m undergoing radiation again AND new cancer treatments because the cancer is growing. They're exhausting and debilitating. They make you nauseous and sick all the time. And unless someone has experienced this first-hand, I don’t think they truly understand.
Just after noon, I met everyone in the band. Denver, the rhythm guitarist, spoke with me for a little while. His kind nature and Scottish accent immediately drew me in. I had the best conversation with him and had no idea he knew about my diagnosis until he said something that surprised me.
“You know,” he finally whispered, “my mother had melanoma. She did eventually die from it, but she lived to be 70!” He patted me on the back. “So don’t lose hope, girl. You might have a long time yet.” Then he winked at me.
Tears filled my eyes because a perfect stranger had acknowledged how serious this fight is, and in the same breath, he’d also given me hope.
We played three songs as a group. My mom and I smiled, shifting speed and taking cues simultaneously like we always do while jamming together. My previous worries dissipated, floating up so many octaves that I became obliviously unaware.
After we finished playing, I thought about how incredible playing felt. I didn’t worry about how I walked or hunched from the side. I didn’t fret over talking about cancer too much or too little. Instead, I loved how nimbly my fingers could still move, dancing up and down the fingerboard, turning strings and wood to sounds that change the climate of an entire day.
“Please, please play with us for our gigs.” The bassist shocked me. “We only play once a month.”
“I wish I could, but I play a few songs and get too tired.”
“Well, you really can fiddle!” Denver interjected. “I’m so glad we got to hear you play.”
After almost everyone else had packed up and left, Denver lingered in the entryway.
“You,” he said, then stood straight. I wondered what he’d wanted to say. “You’re…” So many thoughts seemed to swirl in his brain, but instead of saying anything, he thought hard. “You’re the best!” Then he pointed to me and gave me the brightest smile. “Hang in there.”
After Denver left, my mom turned to me. “Not bad for a group of people in their 60s and 70s.”
“Are you kidding?!” I said, giving her the biggest hug. “You guys are AMAZING! Especially you and Denver!”
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