Written by Beth Yoakum
Content Warning: Cancer
Anyone familiar with a cancer diagnosis knows that it doesn’t matter how long you haven’t felt
right or how big the lump is, it hits you with such surprising force that the saying ‘it knocked the
wind out of my sails’ suddenly makes sense. When the doctor told us, I imagined a Charlie
Chaplin scene where he looks the other way—for just a moment—and runs into a tree. He lies
there, flat on his back, eyes rolling back in his head. It’s like that. Except neither of us were
slapping our legs and laughing.
I was wearing my green sweater—the one with the three-quarter sleeves that I pull out when the
winter and spring collide—and my dark blue jeans and white sneakers. I remember because for a
moment I stepped outside myself and looked at the two of us in that room with the doctor and his
resident. Maybe it was my body’s way of pretending—for a split second only—that this was
happening to someone else. I could definitely see us, your knuckles white as they gripped the
armrest of the chair, me across the room transcribing the doctor’s words so we wouldn’t forget
anything.
We didn’t say much to each other, just held hands as we waited for our car at the valet station.
On the way home, you cautioned me not to tell anyone yet until we had more details. I didn’t
remind you that after thirty years together I knew how your mind worked: you’ve always needed
time to process, pragmatic to a fault. Instead, I squeezed your hand—I was still holding it—and
whispered reassurances to you.
I felt myself already mourning our life before this news. Yesterday, when we sat together after
dinner watching our favorite shows, did I appreciate that comfortable space between us? Now we
would be sharing that space with cancer, like a third wheel polluting the air around us. Panic set
in when I thought of this, so I prayed to live in the moment instead of in the past. I prayed that
my mourning would turn to joy.
After I lost my mom, I lost my joy. She was sick and we knew she was close to dying, but the
potency of grief surprised me. The way it grabbed ahold of me and wouldn’t let go no matter
how hard I fought. While the usual grief analogies involve water: “it washed over me” or
injuries: “it was like an open wound,” my grief felt more like a hyperawareness of senses. Every
song, the taste of foods, the scent of perfume, my skin brushing up against fabrics—everything
connected me back to my mom. The undercurrent of constant sadness made it hard for me to
enjoy life. I felt trapped in one of those rotating doors, moving in and out of the world before her
death and after. It took a long time before I recovered.
With that experience in my arsenal, I’ve resolved not to walk through the revolving door of
memories. More than five decades on Earth have taught me that life is too short to focus on the
unexpected. This diagnosis is like a perforation on the roadmap of our lives, a dotted line I can
fold over and over and detach. As you park the car, and we walk into our house together—still
holding hands—I tell you I love you. Then I hold your response close to me, like I do with all my
other treasures.
.
Beth Yoakum’s unquenchable reading habit fed her vivid imagination for decades. Recently, she began writing her stories down—both fictional as well as reflections on her own life. Beth lives in Michigan with her husband, her four daughters and a large collection of unread books.