Cancer in the Brain
Everyone has it . . .
I had called up the patient and his family for a quick check-in. Perhaps he’d want to see me later in the week. When I called as a hospice chaplain, I tried to respect the needs of the patient, knowing they may or may not want the “religious guy” of the hospice team any time soon.
Whether it’s a first call or a call to patient I’d developed a relationship with, their needs and desires were always paramount.
The patient’s wife answered. An anticipated brief call became fifteen minutes of her sharing a litany of recent incidents.
Her husband was getting forgetful.
He'd fallen down over the weekend.
He couldn’t figure out how to open a sliding door.
He said a call was long distance and hung-up phone.
He didn’t want anyone to see him napping on the sofa.
He said he didn’t want to see his grandchildren while he was “like this.”
One of his children had asked, “Is the cancer in his brain?”
After the phone call was over, I knew it had been an important time with the wife. Later, when I talked with the nurse taking care of him, she agreed. The nurse said it was good for the wife to vent, to know that someone was willing to listen.
I asked the nurse, given the patient’s condition, if indeed the cancer had possibly spread to his brain? Were his children’s concerns valid?
The nurse said that with this stage of the disease’s progression, and this particular kind of cancer, it was possible. Cancer is like the old traveling snake-oil merchant. There’s always another village to sell your junk to. The lungs today, the liver tomorrow.
Cancer in the brain . . .
The phrase sounds like it could be part of some bully’s schoolyard taunt. “Hey, you’re so stupid, you must have cancer in the brain!” Or, “You trip me one more time and I’ll smack your head so hard, you’ll have cancer in the brain!”
But it was serious. It is always serious.
And it’s more than just the possible progression of a particular individual’s devastating illness. When someone has terminal cancer—or any other fatal condition—it’s as if the patient and all the family and friends have a kind of “cancer in the brain.”
The disease’s reality dominates us. The family can’t help but think about what is happening when things change so dramatically. A father who once ate second helpings of everything doesn’t care about food anymore. A friend who once always magically appeared on your doorstep at all the right times now can’t even get out of bed.
When a loved one suffers, we are all affected. For some family and friends, sharing in that “cancer in the brain” means they turn away from the person. They are afraid to be around death. Or they have guilt. Or . . . well, there are endless reasons.
For other family and friends, they choose to adapt. It is never easy. Like the cancer, the litany of incidents keeps growing. And yet, as the fatal condition changes all of them, they find ways to support the patient and themselves. The relationships will be continually re-created and renewed. Today’s anger is vented. The next day’s unexpected confusion can be met with a gesture of compassion.
In one form or another, we will all get “cancer in the brain.”
Whether or not it’s truly terminal is our decision.
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Photo by Robina Weermeijer on Unsplash
My book, A Companion for the Hospice Journey is available at Amazon.