The People Who Get It

I remember sitting in my social worker’s meeting area in the fall of 2024 at Allan Blair. The room had grey, gloomy walls, there were no windows, and it had uncomfortable chairs. The only thing I liked about the room was that it was private and it was far away from any chemo chair.

For the most part, I enjoyed my conversations with my social worker because she was there when I needed to vent, when I needed tough love, and when I needed the resources that I didn’t know how to access. I didn’t realize the importance of her job until she was assigned to my care.

The common themes in our monthly meetings were her desire for me to join the Young Adult Cancer Canada group and to meet more people like me so that I wouldn’t feel so alone. I was pretty firm with her that I didn’t want to be a part of any groups. I made the wrong decision the first time, when I was discharged from the oncology floor and I joined a Facebook Lymphoma Group. The pamphlets at the hospital weren’t kidding when they said someone would be diagnosed with blood cancer every 7 minutes. It felt like every 10 minutes a new post read, “I have just been diagnosed with a blood cancer.” It was more overwhelming than helpful. I didn’t realize how much cancer was around until I was the person having to see it.

I also pushed back on her suggestions because I didn’t want to be the girl with cancer, and I didn’t want to be around people with cancer. I just wanted to feel like me again. I wanted my old life back. I had to walk into the cancer clinic every three months for an appointment; that was enough of a reminder that I was around cancer patients.

You want “your people” to help you through the hardest battles in life, but I soon realized being around your happy friends and family made me sadder than I thought it would. Some people were moving on with their lives because it wasn’t their life being affected and they could walk away; then you had the people who said, “If you need anything, let me know,” but they never offered a hand or reached out to just “do something”; and then we have the people who said, “Just because your life was put on pause doesn’t mean mine has to be.” After hearing comments like, When are you going to start being yourself, going back to work, and doing the old you things again?, I started to realize that being around cancer patients might not be such a bad thing after all.

It was a cold Wednesday in mid-November in 2024 when I was scrolling through Instagram when I saw the YACC post about their annual conference. It was being held in Toronto. The next thing I did was look at the prices for flights to Toronto from Saskatoon. I was shocked at how low they were, given the fact that the conference was going to be held two weeks from the day I was looking. I clicked onto the registration link, and within half an hour I decided that I was finally going to take my social worker’s advice and do a YACC event. I was no longer going to listen to my stubborn self, and I was no longer going to deny letting the fragile, traumatized girl who just needed someone who understood her meet other people. I finally accepted that none of my friends and family would get it and that the only people who would get me were the people who were also in my shoes.

I went from the girl who could barely drive 10 months beforehand because I lost all my arm muscle to a girl who was going to take a flight to a new city where she had never been before and meet a whole bunch of strangers. I loved flying, but my anxiety was high when I arrived at the hotel for the conference. I was sitting in the lobby waiting it out. It felt like the first day of school, scouting out people that you could possibly befriend.

I will say the first day of the conference was rough, but only because it had been over a year since I had been in a room with that many people. My fear of getting any type of infection was always on my mind; my mind couldn’t turn off. I had my mask on my face for protection for me but also for peace of mind that if my immune system couldn’t do its job, something else was protecting me.

You know that first day of college feeling when you get into a lecture hall and the first place you sit is the place you would call your spot for the rest of the semester? Well, that’s how it felt on day 2 of the conference. The seat I sat at the previous day was mine, and I was actually so happy it was. The people at my table became “my people.” We were all newbies at this whole cancer conference thing. We shared stories, and you heard people say, “I know, right!” or “How was this? Did you do this?” And instead of it feeling like someone was invading your privacy or wanting to be a grief tourist for a moment in time, this was more like, “I understand you, man. I get it, and I feel you.” And it’s like you could see people at the table drop their shoulders because we finally were in a room of people who got it.
In a span of 48 hours I went from feeling like “what did I get myself into?” to “holy crap, I finally feel seen for the first time in over two years, and I am finally crying happy tears and not sad ones.” The conference went by too fast, but numbers were exchanged, memories were made, and a feeling of “I am not alone anymore” was finally present in my life.

There was one person who I clicked with the most. Maybe it was because we were from the same province, or maybe it was because we were around the same age, but she truly was a wonderful soul to be around for the conference. Leaving knowing I was going to make an effort for the friendship because she meant a lot to me was how Angie made me feel. For someone who was terminally diagnosed, you would never know it by her spirit. She was never a half-empty-cup kind of person. She wanted the best for everyone even when she was in the pits. She could also listen to you and just make you feel like you mattered, which is a hard trait to come by.

Once we got home, we talked daily over texting; we talked about everything, and we talked about nothing. We met up on the days when I had to go to Regina for a cancer appointment, and we crossed off a bucket list restaurant of mine. It was one of the worst meals I had ever had, but the company made it worth it. I think it makes it more memorable that way when you can think of a crappy spaghetti dish and think of Angie the friend and not Angie the friend you met at a cancer conference. It’s nice to be around someone who sees you as a person first and not a person who sees that you’re sick.

I know it’s hard for normies to get it because all they want to do is help their loved one because they hate seeing them sick, but just existing and not letting emotions take over is what I tried to do for Angie. No one wants to see their friend slowly die from their terminal illness, but that doesn’t mean that she has to be treated differently; sometimes cancer patients just want a normal day.

I remember the day Angie was texting me about the book I self-published and how I got started. I told her once I finished treatment that I made it my mission to get it off my bucket list, and I did. She wanted to write a book so badly, and I told her, “Why not try?” I told her what is the worst that could happen, and she did. She did. She ended up writing 6 beautiful chapters of a book, and she left behind an outline of how she wants me to finish it.

I remember the day like it was yesterday. I was flying back from my 30th birthday week in Ontario, and I just had this gut feeling that something was going to happen. The last text I got from her was “I got all my ducks in a row now.” I didn’t want to admit it, but she was going faster than I wanted her to, but I also knew that she was in so much pain that I also didn’t want her to suffer. On my last flight from Winnipeg to Saskatoon, I just cried the whole way. I must have looked like a tomato when I got off the flight, but I was right. I landed in Saskatoon late Friday evening, 2 days shy of my actual birthday, for her husband to call me to let me know that she in fact “moved on” a couple hours ago. A part of me died that day. Grief is heavy, but I am reminded daily that grief is just love that has nowhere to go. So as her friend I am going to finish writing the story she never got to complete. She may not be physically here, but that doesn’t mean she won’t be with me, just in a different kind of way.

If it weren’t for Angie, I would not be in the place where I am today. I will never be my old self, but I am learning that it isn’t always a bad thing. Angie brought out the best in me and made me realize time doesn’t dictate the significance of a friendship. I also learned that YACC truly changes people’s lives and that being around young adult cancer patients doesn’t have to be a sad thing. Cancer is isolating, but I have learned it’s the worst group to be a part of, but it has the best people to be around, and for that I am forever grateful.