Before my diagnosis of Stage IV Metastatic Breast Cancer (MBC) in 2017, death wasn’t a concept that had been a significant part of my life experiences. I lost a few grandparents and other extended family as I aged but they were elderly and ill and they were, arguably, ready to be done with living with their physical limitations.
Dealing with the constant death and decline in the MBC community is a very different thing. It’s not generally common within the expected life experience to receive a text from a thirty-something friend that reads something along these lines:
“I’m afraid I might be slowly starting to die.”
A variety of responses occurred to me. You see, those of who are also terminal, we think about this a lot. We talk about death and preparing for death a lot. Yet, for us too, when it’s more immediate for someone else, it’s both difficult to know what to say and it’s also triggering. Triggering our own fears and other feelings about death, our own death.
In this situation, I swallowed my own fear and complicated feelings about my own death and I entered into the discussion. I asked questions, I tried my best to empathize and then I got on Amazon and ordered her some things to make her feel more comfortable. As I’ve often said, I’m a do-er and I show most often love to those around me by doing/giving something.
And then I cried.
I cried for my friend, her family, her friends and I cried because this isn’t the last conversation I will have with someone with the same disease that I have about how their death is imminent. I cried for myself and my children and my family because before long, that will be me. I cried because the world will be less bright when my friend leaves. I cried because so many people and companies don’t allocate resources and services the way they should for terminal patients. I cried and cried.
After I cried until there were no more tears left, it was my instinct to simply curl up and sleep the day away. It was my instinct to withdraw from the support groups where I interact with patients who are actively dying. It was my instinct not to say anything, not to reach out for help.
Even after nearly three (3) years of living with terminal cancer, I still find it hard to ask for help. Any kind of help. My mom is really good at intuiting that I need something; much better than I am and I appreciate that. I think others around me don’t often know when I’m struggling or how to help. I know that I often project that I don’t need help and that means I don’t experience the help that could be offered to me.
And I know that addressing a problem begins with admitting there is an issue.
With that in mind, it’s true, I need help. I’m dying. My life won’t end tomorrow or even next week or even, God willing, next year. But I have a less than 25% chance of living two (2) more years. It’s a sobering reality that I live with every day and I talk about with others who are metastatic, but I don’t always remember that healthy people need to hear this too.
I’m a capable, resilient person and it kills me to admit that I can’t do everything, but it’s true, I can’t. I also know that when others are given the opportunity to love on others, to meet the needs of a member of their community, it truly is a win for everyone. I’ve done my best to do that for my community and I’m used to jumping in to help. I just need to remind myself that asking for help is not a bad thing and that there are others out there who love to help as much as I do.
Asking for help doesn’t equal failure in some way, it just means acknowledging the fact that we’re human and humans need help.
Does anyone know if there is a support group for people who don’t like asking for help? Asking for a friend …