Skip to main content

Hi, I'm Darian, and I have breast cancer

I remember when mom had cancer, she signed me and my brother up for this kids support group. "Hi, I'm Darian, my mom has breast cancer." I think that's all I said the entire meeting. By the end of the first meeting we knew it wasn't for us. The kids there were much younger than us, and I don't think either one of us were the type at that time to unload all of our feelings onto complete strangers. Shoot, I think even now we're not that type. We're the smile and nod "Oh I'm doing just fine, thanks, how are you" type of people. Bottle it all up, lay awake at night thinking about it type of people. Then one day your favorite pen runs out of ink and next thing you know, you're sobbing in the office supplies department at Walmart because it was such a good pen, none of these will be the same as my pen. Yeah, that's us.

Looking back, I wish I had paid more attention to what the other kids were saying. I wish I had cared about what they were going through. Sure I felt bad for them, but I didn't really feel... I know now, in trying to help my own kids through this, that there's so much they probably didn't understand, couldn't understand. They were just kids. All they knew was that life was fine, and then one day mommy is in a lot of pain all the time, cries sometimes, can't do as much as she used to and now she's bald and sick. They're normal just up and vanished. I wish I had paid more attention, I wish I had really listened to them, said something, been something for any of them. But I didn't. I just sat there, hating every minute of it in my 13 year old way, thinking there was no way any of these kids could possibly understand what I was going through. I wish I had stopped to think, maybe I wasn't there to get help, maybe I was there to help them with what they were going through.

Today I spent a good 15 minutes lost in the land of Facebook, watching stupid videos I really don't care about, no I'm not going to rescue a puppy, no I'm pretty sure if I don't repost this I won't die tomorrow, scroll, scroll, read a meme that makes me view a "friend" in a whole new light, scroll...scroll...and I'm thinking about these kids from over 20 years ago. Did their mom win the battle? Did they lose her? Are they now stuck in the same battle she was? Man, I really wish I had been something to any one of them. Now I'm typing in the search bar "breast cancer support group" and scrolling through the options. Despite what it might seem like, you know, posting on a blog that literally anyone can read, I'm really not a tell perfect strangers my deepest feelings kind of girl. Sure I'm blogging, but that's the whole thing with blogs, most of the time ain't nobody reading them but your mom. I'm pretty sure if my mom was still around she'd read mine. Print it out, put it on the fridge. Woot woot, got one like today, thanks, mom!

So there I am, browsing through all these support groups, but I really have no intentions of seeking support from them. Sure I might post a few questions on procedures or treatment side effects, your generic, superficial stuff. But the deep down ooey gooey crap that is the essence of me? Yeah, I'm saving that hot mess for God, my husband, and my friends. Sorry guys, this mess is alllll yours. So I'm browsing, and all I can think of is their little faces. The crayons on the table with these uplifting "support" coloring pages. Why wasn't I there for any of them? Why couldn't I get past my own selfish needs and not see these tiny little brokenhearted people right in front of me? Why was I so. Damn. Blind.

I realize now that I was a total butthead then. No doubt, totally selfish, lil jerk. Couldn't get passed the fact that I was bored to see that hey, dumbass, this kid next to you is crying because his mom is going to die...Way to go Darian, you're a real superstar. I can't undo what I did then, can't fix it. But, I can be there, now, for someone else. Maybe on that really bad day, I can be the listening ear, or the helpful hand, or the prayer warrior to lift them up to God because they're too tired or scared to. I can't change my mistakes, I can't go back and tell those kids how sorry I am, I can't go back and listen and be there for them. But I can be something for someone now. I may not be the type to ever, ever call you (you know I'll bump you to voicemail then immediately text you saying What's up), but I can chat online, text, and email like nobody's business. And maybe that's just what someone else might need. That friend they'll never meet, that's always there for them. I can't go back and fix what I ignored, but I can make a choice now to not ignore it again. My battle, I keep close to my heart. That's between me and my father in heaven, but I'll be damned if I let another one of his daughters walk through it alone.

So now here I sit, the new member of breast cancer support groups. Hi, I'm Darian, and I have breast cancer....

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Being Mad at God...

  I've spent the better part of 2023 being mad at God. Mad because I didn't like how my life was turning out. Mad that I couldn't control that. Mad that He wouldn't heal me, fix me, give me my health back. Mad that I didn't understand why He wouldn't grant me that, to be healed. Mad that for the better part of the last year it's felt cold and lonely, as if a great distance stood between me and God. Only I didn't know if He put the distance there, or I did. I'm not good at a lot of things in life, but I'm good at distance, at building walls. I had to for so long, to survive living with those that were supposed to love me, and once I no longer had to build walls, I can't seem to learn how to stop. So there I was, countless times, laying bed bound, or on the floor about to pass out again, crying out in the darkest of dark, cold, lonely silence - crying out for healing that still hasn't come, for understanding of why my life has to hurt so ba
Post a Comment
Read more

The path I didn't plan on taking...

Mom was 36 when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. I remember on her short treatment days she let me come with her, because by that point I did everything with her. Doctors appointments, tests, treatments. Where she went, I went. Whether she wanted me to or not. The oncologist administered the treatments at his office, in this dingy little room in the basement that looked like death row for cancer patients. Ugly pleather recliners lined the walls of the small room, you could hardly breathe through the dense desperation in the air. As if everyone was just waiting. Waiting to die. At that age, I thought that would never happen to me. As I grew older, I feared that would be me. When I turned 36 I was horrified it would be me; thinking that would be the start of my impending doom. My death sentence. The year I would be diagnosed with breast cancer. But that birthday came and went without a diagnosis, and I almost felt victorious, like I had made it. I had beat this thing that had at
3 comments
Read more

I look like a cancer patient

It's not like I didn't know it was coming, like somehow I would be spared the inevitable. Every day, as I run my fingers through the shaved fuzz on my head, I look at my hand wondering, is today the day? Is today the start of another transformation? Is today the day I look like a cancer patient? And as I looked down at an empty hand, I exhaled. Today wasn't the day. Today, people would only still wonder, was I a patient, did I shave my head in support of a patient, was I a feminist trying to prove a point? They could only wonder. The other night while my husband was at his bible study I was sitting on the patio, taking in all the fresh air I can before the air turns too cool to sit outside, forcing me indoors. I took a long breath, ran my hand across my head, and looked down at my palm, covered in hair. Today was the day... I blew the handful of fuzz off my hand, and then pinched a small cluster and pulled. I felt nothing, it didn't hurt, but there between my finger
3 comments
Read more