Guilt

I think the formula may well be “Time multiplied by loss, then divided by survival equals guilt.” I don’t know how to write that out in fancy equation form; however, I am rather sure it is a clock, an X followed by a / and then a crying emoji.

Losing loved ones to cancer

I have lost a ridiculous number of loved ones to this horrible disease. Far too many, and I have just as many fighting it now as I type this article. Co-workers, family, and friends. Folks I have “met” in chat rooms and message boards. Complete strangers that I have bonded with over headscarves and IV drips.

Receiving a reminder in the mail

This week, I received a parcel in the mail from my uncle. He had been cleaning out some treasures and found some childhood pictures of me. Most of them were ones I have seen over the years, and I absent-mindedly flipped through them. Towards the end, I found an old polaroid of my great aunt and uncle. Aunt Norm passed less than five years ago, and I had remained close with her throughout most of my life. She was an amazing and wonderful soul whom I dearly loved. Next to her was uncle Bob.

The first person I lost to cancer

Uncle Bob passed over 40 years ago, and this was the first time I had seen a picture of him in all the years that have passed. He was the first person I could recall that cancer had robbed me of. He was a smoker, back when it was still cool. When smoking was what men did. When a Zippo lighter was a respected family heirloom, passed from father to son to grandson. He told me not to smoke. Said it was dumb and that he wished he could quit. Years later, I would recall that when I tried, again and again, to quit.

Fond memories

Uncle Bob taught me to drive a boat. To hit the waves head-on and to be steady on the throttle and firm, but not rigid, on the wheel. He taught me to be a better cribbage player and laughed as he told me about beating my father so many games that dad wouldn’t play for a time. When I ran away from home, at thirteen, he took me to Aunt Norm with a gruff but loving, “Well, you did it now.” I wasn’t there when he passed, but I knew cancer had taken him, and I hated it for taking him.

Losing an online friend

Gemma was the first friend I made at Blog for a Cure. She was in her early twenties and so very ill. She had such a sweet spirit and gentle demeanor; you could not help but love her from the first message exchanged. Posts filled with hopes and dreams were followed by updates that made those hopes and dreams seem unlikely. I remember her posts sounding weaker and weaker as her fight neared the end. When the post came that she had passed, I cried for hours and weeks and days. I had never met her. I had only “known” her via the computer, but the loss I felt was akin to losing a lifelong, close friend. My hatred for cancer grew exponentially.

Survivor's guilt

I could recount stories for volumes, but the thing I had not counted on, the thing growing with each loss and each funeral was a deepening, engulfing guilt. Uncle Bob and Gemma were wonderful people, loving and kind. Each one important to those who loved them and counted them family and yet they had both, along with so many others, lost this battle and I had not.

Both thankful and guilt-ridden

I have passed and continue to journey through this dark valley, watching others succumb. I stress how thankful I am, but in the same breath admit how guilt-ridden I feel. There are no answers to my “Why?” No explanations or rationale, just more questions. I am comforted by my memories and the tears they bring forth. That said, my guilt comes like the waves of an angry sea and engulfs me. Like a child in the surf, I am knocked down and tossed about.

I write and share their stories to keep my lost brothers and sisters alive and to give purpose to my guilt. One day, cancer will lose and then I will dance the joyous dance of a warrior who has come home to find peace.

Be well, my friends.