One of the hazards of living with cancer is losing friends. You can way too easily imagine their terror and pain. Some of you may even get slapped with a dose of survivor’s guilt. Since my diagnosis, I’ve lost many friends. It’s the new reality of the fabric of my life. The passing of my dear friend, Giovanna Imbesi, nearly tore my heart out.
After the Sun Sets
“Life is never made unbearable by circumstances, but only by lack of meaning and purpose. Happiness cannot be pursued; it must ensue.”
Viktor Frankl
On a recent trip to San Francisco, my husband and I were taken aback when we slipped into the back seat of our Uber. The driver glanced our way with a curt nod as he turned up the speaker to his audible book. Ok, we got the hint. We would be quiet. Within minutes, the words of the book captivated us. The lulling English voice articulated his firsthand experience in a concentration camp, not only the unspeakable horrors, but how he discovered meaning and purpose amidst atrocities.
We were jolted back to reality when our driver stopped in the middle of a busy street expecting us to jump out while angry traffic honked. Even in the confusion, I had to ask the name of the book. The driver yelled, “Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl.” I noted the title in my phone and ordered it from Audible. The words from the book ready and waiting to rescue me from my fate to come.
A few months later my husband, father, and I wove our way down Highway 89 into Prescott, Arizona. I was alarmed when a phone notification pinged. An urgent call from my cancer support group was scheduled for the next half hour. The subject matter was too sensitive to relay in a text or email. My heart sank, and I withered into sobs. I instinctively knew it was my dear friend, Giovanna Imbesi.
Giovanna and I had shared a similar health journey for over a decade. She selflessly gave of her talent and time to start our Los Angeles-based support group, LACNETS. Because of her vision and hard work, newly diagnosed people have a network of caring people and resources to turn to—something we didn’t have back in the early 2000s. Along with Giovanna, our community lost three others within a matter of months.
The culmination of these losses triggered immense grief. These were young people with purpose and passion. In no way were they ready to leave this earth. I could not help but fixate on the uncertainty of my own future. While I’m doing well at the moment, when will my fate change? Statistics are not in my favor. Days of tears and grief and, eventually, despair followed.
Then, I remembered the book and the serendipitous encounter with the Uber driver. I finally decided to listen to Man’s Search for Meaning. Three hours later, my heart and passion were renewed.
Here’s the distilled truth: Even in the most intense suffering, we have a choice to make meaning. Meaning is derived from the hope of a future. No matter what the odds, all have the right to dream of a future in which we are fulfilled and carrying out our destiny. If Viktor Frankl can survive the loss of his wife and bear witness to unthinkable atrocities to write a book that would change the trajectory of psychiatry, then I can choose to imagine a future in which I can make a difference.
What can we do? First and foremost, we need to realize we can’t escape our grief. If we don’t allow ourselves to feel the clench of anguish as it grabs hold of our hearts and squeezes, we get stuck. Sure, there are a million ways to distract—bury yourself in work, binge Netflix, obsess over others. But, when all is said and done, grief comes to collect its dues. And, that’s not necessarily a horrible thing. We are human beings and we need to feel, to experience all of our emotions fully.
I recently learned the phrase, “Name it to tame it.” Sometimes we are so distracted we don’t recognize that the migraine or stomach ache or heart palpitations are our emotions screaming for attention. By recognizing and naming the feeling (fear, grief, anxiety, rejection, insecurity, despair), we honor it. We honor ourselves. Ways to “name it” can vary. Some like to write in a journal, some like to create art, some have friends or family or a support group to vent to.
My trip to Prescott, Arizona with my husband and father was meant to be a once-in-a-lifetime vacation to visit all the western museums and take a picture in front of the Grand Canyon. Instead, I cried for days. I obsessed. Giovanna had the best medical care available, yet this awful disease stold her from us in the end. I was surely no more deserving than her to still be alive. I felt despair. It was only a matter of time before my cancer gained enough momentum to strangle me from within. I wrote dark and despairing poetry that poured from my fingertips like a slashed artery.
After reading Man’s Search for Meaning, the fog of grief started to dissipate. My husband and I planned a weekend getaway to Laguna Beach. I was in a rush to get there because I didn’t want to miss the sunset. I specifically chose a room that had a balcony overlooking the beach. It was late winter so our “sunset” window was closing quickly and the chatty guy at the check-in desk wasn’t helping. With ten minutes to spare, we made it to our room, poured champagne in paper cups, and snapped a few selfies as the sun was swallowed by the ocean.
To be honest, all the hoopla for a sunset seemed pretty anti-climatic. But as the champagne settled in to blur away all the petty little distractions, I turned my attention towards Giovanna. “Giovanna,” I prayed, “please show me a sign that you’re still here. Please show me a sign that life exists beyond the sunset. Please tell me we don’t get swallowed into an ocean of nothingness. And, by the way, can you please send a bird to this balcony?
Then I opened my eyes to the sky and watched the show. Have you ever noticed how glorious the sky becomes after the sun sets? The entire sky lit up in a brilliant twilight afterglow that morphed in shades and hues right before my eyes. The yellow from the recently set sun spilled over its liquid gold across the horizon into shades of cantaloupe and peach. Then the entire sky glowed pink through the feathery dust of clouds. At that moment, the thought occurred to me that we are all so focused on that moment the sun sets. The beaches are packed with selfie-takers, not even facing forward to fully take in the moment. But, the afterglow is just as, if not more beautiful.
When the sky finally dimmed into darkness, my husband and I went back into our room to change for dinner. He shut the curtains for privacy. But, about a half-hour later, when he went back to retrieve our ice bucket, he stopped short.
“Kelli, check this out,” he whispered. There, perched on the railing of our deck, a mourning dove had settled in. She didn’t even flinch when we snapped a photo.
Grief is a real part of cancer—whether we loose a loved one or the version of the life we thought we were going to live. For more resources on grief, visit the LACNETSwebsite.
Kelli Devan Edwards 