Integration Through Storytelling: Reclaiming Life After Cancer
If I asked you to envision the life of someone in their early 20s, you might imagine a time of adventuring, self-discovery, and personal growth. But you might not expect that those experiences would be delivered through numerous hospital visits, getting lost in endless brightly lit corridors at 1am and being unable to think, much less plan, more than a week in advance.
The following is an updated edit from a newsletter entitled ‘it’s going to be okay’ that I sent out to my mailing list in April 2022.
In early November last year, my partner Gonzalo came home after having had a biopsy taken of some enlarged lymph nodes on his neck. He shared what his doctor had told him: that it was likely a lymphoma. Though I didn’t know much about it then, I knew that was something serious. I kept repeating the word in my head. Lymphoma. Lim-fo-ma. I’m not quite sure how to describe the feeling that arrives when you hear something like that; something like a wave of nausea accompanied by a pounding heart rate and the abrupt pausing of time. The lunch he brought us was left mostly uneaten on the table.
We spent a few blurry weeks not knowing exactly what we were dealing with, (looking back, this is when I struggled most); we didn’t know what treatment would be like, how he’d be affected by it, or the effect it might have on us. It’s a bizarre and unsettling thing to be in your mid twenties and suddenly faced with the reality of this human existence. Understanding that it really is all impermanent. That to be living is also to be dying.
After some further scans, meeting his parents for the first time after they’d flown in from Mexico, and more time than was comfortable spent hanging in limbo, we received his formal diagnosis; stage 4 hodgkin’s lymphoma, a type of blood cancer affecting the lymphatic system. The cancer was present in multiple lymph nodes, in his lungs, and (thankfully they didn’t tell us until later on), there was some indication it was developing in his bone marrow.
I was struck with the fear that my life might be dictated by the grief of losing him. My partner on the other hand, was remarkably calm in the face of this vast unknown; I have no doubt that his own daily practice and understanding of yogic teachings equipped him to be able to respond to this news in such a deeply attuned and trusting way. We read the bhagavad-gita together, lit fires with our friends, hugged and cried and danced together, smashed garden furniture up with an axe on the beach, acknowledged that this whole thing is really fucking shit, and struggled but continued to sit in meditation. We ventured up north to spend time immersed nature, in ceremony, seeking guidance. The messages that overwhelmingly came through for both of us were;
i) to trust, in a deep, visceral sense, that everything would turn out well,
ii) that we have all the tools we need to make it through this, we just need to use them,
iii) if we can just ride this wave, it’s going to be so beautiful on the other side.
And so treatment began; he started chemotherapy just before christmas, and his whole family came over to spend Christmas and New Year with us. Since then there have been numerous hospital visits, including one emergency room scare, a week-long hospital admission with a mystery infection, and a few midnight calls to the oncology hotline. The effects of the chemo accumulate over time, and I distinctly remember at the half-way mark, while he was experiencing some of the worst nausea he’d had post-chemo, we both had a cry on each other; a ‘we’re halfway there’ cry but also a ‘we’re only halfway there’ cry.
At the time of writing the newsletter in April I was burning out with chronic fatigue and pain that I’d developed in my bones and soft tissues. I was exhausted, sleeping 9 or more hours a night and needing naps throughout the day. I had brain fog and struggled to concentrate, and I took a week of holidays off work just to stop myself from having a breakdown. I didn’t share any of this at the time, but I think it’s important that I do that now.
My anxiety wreaked havoc in that time. I was worried endless that these symptoms I was experiencing could be the start of my own cancer story, that our treatments would get stacked up back to back in some twisted universal concoction of seemingly endless suffering. I had bloods taken, my counts were a little off but not enough for them to do anything about it other than tell me to come back in three months. I was told that it was quite likely that all the symptoms I was experiencing were an effect of the stress I was under while caring for my partner and that they’d ease up once he was better.
At the start of this whole experience I’d been so concerned with ‘how I can show up as the best partner I can be’, and ‘how I can best look after him’, that I forgot to consider how I was going to look after myself. “I’m sure most of the processing will happen once this is all over.” I’d written, and sure enough, it’s all catching up with me now.
It’s been said that cancer has a ripple effect: cancer is the raindrop that affects the person who receives the diagnosis the most, dropping them to the depths of this metaphorical body of water, and then that effect ripples out, delivering a strong blow to those closest to that person, and continues rippling out to the peripheries, to every life that person has touched. None of us haven’t been touched by cancer in some way or another. It just hits us all a little differently.
I don’t regret anything from this experience, other than that I wish I’d taken more time to consider just how close I was to the raindrop, and really thought about how to look after myself throughout his treatment. I did get myself a therapist, and of course I kept my morning journalling and meditation practice going, but apart from that I had no clear consistent strategy for looking after myself. Becoming a carer is not something to be taken on lightly; the emotional and physical toll it took on me was evident, and looking back I know I should have been better at asking for help not just when I was at breaking point but before I really needed it.
So after six long months of chemotherapy, a final CT scan, and a lot of support from both family, friends and several charities (Teenage Cancer Trust, Maggie’s, and CCLASP) we finally received the news from a softly spoken Aussie Oncologist on a sunny day in late June that his scan came back completely clear. Once we’d left the consulting room we both burst into tears in the waiting room, stopping to hold each other, then repeated this in the corridor and once again when we were outside the building.
As we were standing there, soggy-ing each other’s t-shirts with the most cathartic tears of pride and relief I’ve ever felt in my life, a lady passing by stopped, “Aw everyone’s so loved up today, that’s the second time I’ve seen a couple having a wee moment together”. We looked up with tear stained faces and Gonzalo explained that he’d just found out he no longer has cancer. “That’s wonderful news”, she beamed at us, her hand over her heart, “I’m so happy to hear that”. She was about to walk away when she turned back; “You know, I had cancer when I was in my 40’s, and I’m in my 70’s now. You’ve got so much life ahead of you yet”. And with that she disappeared, like she’d materialised just to deliver us that message in that moment.
The story, or rather the experience, of cancer doesn’t just end there, with the news of remission, but continues on through the process of rest, recovery and integration. And that’s the chapter we’re in now. Trying to make sense of what the fuck just happened. The process is ongoing, and I know not every difficult situation needs to be transformed into a teaching moment, but there are a few things I hope you might take away from this;
If you are lucky enough to have the kind of love in your life that makes your heart sing, or loved ones that care for you, friends you can rely on or colleagues that make your day, make it your mission to REALLY appreciate those people. Let them know. Tell them, show them, learn their love languages and make sure they feel loved. Next time you see your loved ones, and they are healthy, hold them as if you’ve just found out they don’t have cancer. Celebrate the shit out of them. We’re just overlapping timelines, the people we meet and fall in love with just happen to be on this earth at the same time as us. Make the most of it, it doesn’t last forever.
Recognise that your own life is a gift. It’s too short to waste doing things that don’t fill you up. What would you reconsider if you were handed a diagnosis like this? What do you feel called to spend your time doing? Who is present in your life? ?What gives your life a sense of meaning and purpose? Do more of the things that bring you joy, and less of the stuff that would make you wonder where the time has gone.
You are loved. So loved. Deeply and unconditionally. More than you could possibly imagine.
I’ve seriously admired the courage, grace and emotional maturity with which Gonzalo has handled the uncertainty of this diagnosis and the challenges that have come with treatment. He truly is a testament to his own practice. Deciding to love fiercely and unconditionally, to live boldly in search of purpose and to find moments of humour and joy in even the hardest of times (like following through on a bet to wear a roast turkey hat to an oncology appointment) all takes courage.
He has emerged from the other side of this experience (or adventure as we’ve taken to calling it) taking all the lessons he's learnt in stride, with a compassionate desire to give back to the world. He has decided to walk 100km of the Camino de Santiago to raise funds for the Teenage Cancer Trust, who have been massively helpful in supporting him throughout and beyond treatment. We were so grateful to have reached the target within the first 72hrs so we’ve raised the target to £5k. If you’d like to donate or even just share his story, we’d really appreciate it. https://gofund.me/b980f860
Cancer is sadly not uncommon, but there’s still a taboo and a fear surrounding it that I think could usefully be challenged. Yes, cancer cases vary massively in their prognosis, it’s hugely disruptive and earth-shattering to receive a diagnosis (no matter when in life that might come, but particularly in your early adulthood when you’re only just starting to figure this whole life thing out) and I’m certainly not here to paint this with a big ol' toxic positivity rainbow paintbrush and say that cancer is a breeze, but I will say that what it is NOT, is by default a death sentence.
We only tend to hear the most tragic stories, and so that’s what sticks in our minds. It’s what paralyses us with fear (my symptoms that I had heavily over-analysed thankfully turned out to be a product of my own stress and anxiety, a projection of expectations of the worst, and to a certain extent, the result of the lingering narratives surrounding cancer that I’d been exposed to), but so many (most!) people get through this and recover fully and go on to live long and fulfilling lives, just like that woman in the hospital grounds, so I think these stories are worth sharing too. There’s healing in storytelling. It’s human, it’s what we’ve evolved doing. It’s how we learn, grow and connect.
We both know how important it is to have a community and to feel supported during times like this; if any of you have had a similar experience and have some wisdom to share, or if you’re currently going through this and in need of some support, please feel free to reach out, I’d love to hear from you.
Take care. With love,
Hannah (& Gonzalo)