I’ll never forget the day my parents told us that my mom had
cancer. I remember where I was sitting, my father’s face, and the advice he
gave us about how we all needed to just continue living – that mom’s cancer was
just a part of our lives, but that it didn’t mean we should stop living all the
other parts as well.
Even more, I remember the day they told us they were
stopping treatments. In the age before cell phones, I would use the office
phone at lunchtime on days when mom had doctor’s appointments to ask how it had
gone, how her numbers looked, did we think the most recent round of chemo was working,
etc. When I called that day, dad said, “Well sweetheart, let’s just talk
when you get home from school.” A friend found me in the hallway right outside
the office and held me as I cried. After she passed away, Emily and I would
rush out to the car at lunch time, drive the 10 minutes home, eat for 10
minutes, and drive the 10 minutes back to school just to spend a few minutes.
Catherine and dad would alternate getting food ready for us. It probably wasn’t
every day, but I remember it like it was a ritual.
You never really get over the loss of a close loved one. My husband
has commented several times that I mark time in my life as “BC” and “AC” – “before
cancer” and “after cancer”. “I must have been young, because it was before mom
got sick.” “Mom had lost her hair, but she was still feeling good, so I must
have been about 14.” “I know it was at least a year after mom’s funeral, but
before I started college.” Mom is never far from my mind. My late teens was a hard,
but also happy time for me – my dad, my sister Emily and I did our best to deal
with the dark heaviness that comes with a great loss, and to this day I
probably feel a more-than-is-strictly-normal connection with both of them from
that time.
Cancer has touched so many in my family, either through a
full-out battle with a diagnosis, or increased odds through genetics. Eventually
my dad remarried an amazing woman whose husband had died of cancer. (Their
daughter was going through cancer at the same time.) Only a few short months
after their wedding, another of my stepsisters was diagnosed with cancer. She battled
fiercely for 4.5 years and, in a similar fashion to my mom, I will never forget
when she went off her chemo treatments. I miss her dearly, and one of the great
injustices in this world is that I think my husband would have gotten along
with her famously. I won’t name names, as their lives are personal and their
own, but suffice it to say, cancer runs in the family through many people.
I think my father’s remarriage is an incredible story. Over
40 years ago, my parents moved into a house in Orem, UT. Within a very short amount
of time, my mom and Sandra (the woman who would eventually become my stepmother)
were put into a presidency for our church together and became fast friends. Their
husbands met and also became the best of friends – for years, they would do
double dates and combined family functions. My eventual stepmother was the
first person besides my parents to hold me in the hospital. Sandra’s husband
got cancer a year or two into my mom’s cancer fight. It’s truly one of the greatest
manifestations of God’s love in my life. I don’t think God gave Larry and mom cancer,
but I think He knew and helped prepare the way for joy to follow sorrow. Sandra
has enhanced my life in so many ways. She brought joy and life back to my
father. She has loved my nieces and nephews. She fell in love with my husband
after our first date, and was one of his biggest champions while I navigated my
fear of loving again. She is bright and joyful and funny and kind. I understand
so well why she was one of my mother’s dearest friends.
And I will never forget as my parents sat across from me a
few weeks back to let us know that my stepmom is now facing the same cancer
that took my first mother. It feels like a very unfair form of déjà vu. Life is
full of moments that feel like everything pivots, and this is one of those
moments. I won’t attempt to describe my feelings – they are lengthy, unknown to
even myself, and ultimately not relevant to why I sat down to write this. I
feel such a gut punch right now, but I also just needed to express to the universe
that there can be joy and peace amid turmoil and pain. “It's funny how, when things
seem the darkest, moments of beauty present themselves in the most unexpected
places.” Spencer and I had planned a trip to Disneyland this last weekend
(months ago, to escape some other hard things that we have been carrying –
hilarious) and were considering cancelling it in view of everything going on.
Sandra and dad told us in no uncertain terms to go. That we had to create
moments of joy and laughter and lightness – to keep living.
“Choose to focus on those things that fill your soul with
hope.” Dieter Uchtdorf.
