The Elephant in the Room is Cancer. Tea is the Relief Conversation Provides.
Unlike the year prior, this would be the year my son and I would attend our Bible study group hand in hand, together. The year before, my Hodgkin’s lymphoma didn’t completely respond to treatment, and I found myself welcoming further treatment options. This was a huge milestone in my journey—I was no longer in treatment, and I didn’t have to live in my stem cell transplant bubble. My son was going to his Bible study group, and I was going to my group.
Me and my son were warmly welcomed by women I had never met. They didn’t know my story, what a relief. Turning down the familiar hall of rooms filled with children and volunteers, I saw an old friend. One old friend turned into several run-ins with friends I’d known for five plus years. The elapsed time ran over me like a flood, and I just wanted to run. Or at least drop off my kid and hide.
Upon reaching my son’s class, “The Elephant Room,” I nearly ran for the hills.
Crying my eyes out, I found a good friend, ranting to her through my wails, “I just don’t feel like I belong. I feel like the elephant in the room, and overlooked.”
This is my current reality:
Over the course of treatment, my village showed up faithfully without me initiating. Remission life is quite the opposite. Loved ones aren’t opening my garage and waltzing through my door. Cancer has a way of confusing relationships. The static sound of silence consumes my mind as I wait to hear from the people I was formerly connected to.
The rush of pain I inflicted on loved ones when I announced my diagnosis, the small death of my life ending in their minds, has now rebounded to me still being here. But is the fight worth fighting if the people around me are disappearing?
Remission brings a quiet, slow pace of no longer needing treatment, yielding fewer appointments. Yet, in some ways, I’m dragging because of chemotherapy’s side effects and cancer’s implications. It’s a season of being more available for adventures, but not hearing from friends. It’s a season where no one expects anything, but feeling like I’ve vanished keeps my head spinning.
If my life was worth fighting for, how did I end up so alone? Instead of feeling like I’ve crossed the finish line, the silence from relatives, church, old friends, dear friends, and even my psychologist eats away at me. Knowing my emotions are as enormous as the largest animal I’ve ever seen, maybe my crew deserves a little grace and possibly some space from the impact of my cancer on their lives. I’m counting the few that are still in my corner. They are the ones that don’t make me feel like I’m the elephant in the room. The people I’m running to are the ones who ask, “How are you feeling about going through Menopause in your thirties?” My heart’s desire for connection must simply choose peace in the silence. Not being offended by the distance that life, hard seasons, and an emotional roller coaster creates is the true beauty of silence.
Amidst my panic at Bible study with over three hundred women and children, I spotted friends silently praying for my family. Silence is becoming my new comfort. With an army of people lifting me in prayer, I’m never actually alone.
Many years ago, I ventured to Africa on a mission trip with my church. I had the opportunity to experience a safari. A momma lion providing food for her cubs didn’t compare to the force of a herd of elephants. No elephant stood alone.
Like elephants traveling together, so are the wonderful few that continue to stand by our side as we find a new meaning and purpose to life after cancer. I for one would avoid a herd of any size because of their immeasurable strength.
Elephants and Tea is a trademark of the Steven G. Cancer Foundation, a registered 501(c)(3) nonprofit under federal tax guidelines.
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