Telling People

Telling people about a cancer diagnosis is a very tricky affair. Who do you tell? What do you tell? When do you tell them? Whose job is it to tell other people? News like this can spread like wildfire through a family and a small community. It snowballs, as more and more people tell others, thankfully, actually, so that you don't have to tell everyone. Then, when you think there can't possibly be anyone else to tell, you have to say it again, to someone else, in the grocery store, or at a gas station. You run into someone you haven't seen for years, and they innocently ask you about your mother, and you have to tell them. You prepare a speech, the easiest, quickest way to say it; you blurt it out, and then wait for the inevitable questions, some more personal than others. You respond with the same answers you have repeated over and over to each person you have to tell, and you feel like a broken record.

The night of the diagnosis, I first telephoned my aunt, Gail, my mother's sister, to whom I am quite close, and actually with whom I have much more in common with than ever with my mother. We all laughed about that many times, because I am more like Gail, and her daughter, Lynn, was more like my mother. Mom and Gail were two years apart, and were incredibly close. Growing up in Lewistown in the late fifties, they were inseparable, always double dating, always together. Our family has always been close, with family vacations planned together in Fort Peck every summer that it was possible, so even though disbursed all over the United States for much of their lives, they saw each other as often as possible, and have always come together in a family crisis.

I don't know what I was thinking when I picked up the telephone to call Gail. I should have composed myself better, because I was a mess. I had just told Rusty, and marched downstairs, and picked up the phone without thinking, and before I knew it, Gail answered. I said, "Gaa-aa-iii---lllll..." and fell completely apart, and was unable to speak. My poor aunt tried to remain calm, and tried to get me to tell her what it was, what horrific thing had happened, urging me to speak for several minutes. Finally, I said, "Mom". So, she said, "Ok, your Mom, what happened?" I am sure she thought Mom had been in some horrific accident or something, as she was relieved when I told her it was just cancer, and that she was still alive. We spoke for a little while, as I calmed down, and then she offered to tell her brother, Erik, to my relief; the fewer people to tell that day the better for me.

Gail is very pragmatic, and simply purchased a plane ticket and came to Great Falls. I was so thankful, because she, too, is like a mother to me. I love her dearly, and depend on her in these situations, as a voice of reason, and calm. I needed her, and she came, without question, without an invitation, she just came; it was, of course, what she would do. As soon as I picked her up from the airport the next evening, everything was better, because she would be there too, to help pick up the pieces, and to help Mom, because my stepfather, Paul, was working, and needed to keep working, because my mother was retired, and he was the bread winner in the family, and the only reason they had health insurance, thankfully. So, Gail would come, and would help us through whatever was needed, which was an immense help. Telling Gail was easy in the end.

Telling my brother was a whole other matter, however. My brother, Terry, has never been good in these types of situations. He simply retreats into himself, and can't speak, and just cries silently; you can tell he is still there because he is sniffling but there are generally no words. He has never been good with death, or even interpersonal communications, so at times of crisis, he is often simply unable to function. He puts up his blinders, and keeps working and going about life, and chooses to not really address the situation, because he is unable to control the emotional swell, and refuses to speak about it, to anyone, particularly not to me. In that way, I am now realizing, he was really very similar to my mother. Perhaps that is why they were so close; they always had this incredible bond. He was her angel, and she, his protector and constant supporter. Terry simply lived his life, and she loved him no matter the situation. I, too, love him, but I have never understood him. Mom never endeavored to understand him. It was her gift; blind acceptance without a need to analyze and fully understand - it is my nemesis at times, because I always analyze and need to understand.

I telephoned my brother, and as I expected, he got very quiet, and cried, and ended the conversation as quickly as possible. He wanted to be kept informed, but he wouldn't come from Tennessee, as that was cost-prohibitive. It has always been about money for him, even if someone offers to treat him, he will likely refuse as he neither has the money, nor does he wish to owe anything to anyone. As I hung up the telephone, I once again silently thanked Gail for coming, because I knew that Terry would be unable to be a support to me, and I would be no support for him, because as was his way, he wouldn't let me. I hoped, as I hung up the telephone, that he would allow his wife to support him, but I just don't know, because I haven't spent enough time with her to know.

The only other person that I had to tell that day was Sandy, and that, too, was not easy. Sandy was my mother's best friend. They met in Germany in 1969, both in their mid-twenties, with young children, and young, handsome GI husbands in the Air Force. They were immediate best friends, and kindred spirits, and would spend the rest of their lives as near one another as they could manage. Telling Sandy was difficult, as she does not have my mother's strength, and because she is my other mother. Sandy and my mother became best friends when I was five years old. I don't have very many memories from my childhood that don't involve Sandy in one way or another, and her children are like my siblings. Sandy quickly became worried, and insisted on ending the conversation, and telephoning my mother herself. They needed each other, and needed to discuss it with each other.

Whether you tell the person yourself, or they hear it from someone else, really doesn't prevent you from having to discuss the disease with everyone with whom you are close or not, however. It seems I was constantly discussing it with anyone and everyone, both in person, and on the telephone, particularly in the first few days. My uncle, Erik, had been informed of the diagnosis by his sister, Gail, but still insisted on telephoning me personally, partly because, we, too, are close. Sandy's daughter, Cheryl, my "big sister", also called me to offer her support. My father called from Alabama, after having been told of the cancer by my brother. I am sure they all meant well, and I did need to talk to each, but it doesn't make it easier.

For me, I was suddenly immersed in this world of telephone calls and personal discussions, finding myself saying much the same things over and over, particularly early on, because everyone is searching for answers. That is how the human mind works, I think; searching for some answer, something to make sense, for something to seem more "normal" than the current situation can possibly be. We are faced with the realities of life just when we are attempting to ignore them, and so we talk it over with others, attempting to analyze the situation, to find something concrete to hold onto while we are careening out of control emotionally. At least, that is how I felt about it. I needed to discuss it with others. I have always been a talker, a sharer, on too personal a basis at times for some people's comfort level, but also being unable to keep it all in, I tend to spill to anyone who will listen, anyone who wants to spend the time, and it has been many people over the years.

So, I spent my time talking it over, discussing the options, waiting for the meeting with the doctor, and wanting someone to give me something to cling to, something positive, some reason to hope. What I learned through this journey was that, you can just hope. Even if the situation appears to be hopeless, it can't prevent you from having hope. You can just hope, and no one can stop you. No one would ever stop my mother from hoping.