Cancer. Such an ugly word. And an even uglier reality. On August 8, 2017, my husband and I found ourselves staring grimly into each other’s eyes, and acknowledging the fact that cancer had now become a part of OUR reality, regardless of how we felt about it in that moment. Numbly, we made decisions about surgery to have the tumor debulked, and then there were a plethora of scans and a pile of bloodwork to sift through…followed by many tearful conversations where we discussed the very un-fun reality of the fact that chemotherapy was clinically indicated, and mulled over the ways that this would affect our plans for both the present and the future.

I’ve been a nurse for several years now. But what I’m learning through this experience—this odd sensation of being a family member of the patient instead of being the caregiver—is that somehow, even when the prognosis post-treatment is GREAT, the reality of the fact that cancer has affected someone you love is devastating in an earth-shattering, mind-numbing, norm-changing way that leaves one reeling. And searching. And questioning. And hurting.

Gradually the overwhelming ache of that hurt gives way to a softening and acceptance that opens the door for others to come in and quietly minister, but this has been a process. Let’s face it, yours truly has never been good at asking for or accepting help.

To allow others to glimpse in and see our pain and walk with us through this season of tears and chaos has been acutely painful. Over the years, I’ve become selfishly attached to the idea that we should always strive to appear to have things all together—to be invulnerable, to hide our needs, to smile through whatever might be happening under the surface, and to always be “fine,” even when that’s the furthest thing from the truth. And when my Father placed me in this situation where I can no longer pretend that I’m invulnerable—where I’m clearly NOT fine, where our family has needs on many fronts, and where I’m no longer able to pretend that I can single-handedly hold everything together—I was suddenly forced to realize just HOW attached I’d become to the notion of invulnerability. It can be surprisingly painful to have our idols pried away.

We certainly don’t have everything figured out at this point. We’re hopefully nearing the end of Jon’s final round of chemotherapy, but there will be more bloodwork, and more tests…which will tell us if there will be more surgery, and potentially more chemo. Cancer has robbed us of our old sense of normal, it’s true—but what we’re realizing through this journey is that the death of the old sense of normal was long overdue.

It’s still hard. There are still lots of tearful days. Chemo totally sucks. But we’re finding that as we’ve been open—gradually, timidly—with people about our pain, and our needs, and our situation, we’ve been overwhelmed by the love, the support, and the crazy sense of being valued that have flowed back towards our tiny family.

We’ve received so much grace undeservedly, and we are truly grateful.