We, women, are weird creatures. When we get “The Diagnosis”, we’re devastated… for a short while. Then, we start worrying about our beloved ones. How will they cope with the fact that their mum/wife/auntie/daughter/friend has cancer? Will they become desperate? What could we do in order to ease their pain…? To encourage them, to help them…?
I was hardly more than a kid, a 21-year-old premature-yet-immature creature, when my mum died. I still remember how I tried to reach out to the adults, the people that were supposed to help me and console me, the child… and I ended up supporting them in turn, symbolically (and, now and then, literally) wiping snotty noses and tear-brimmed eyes. The adults around me couldn’t cope on their own account. They were clinging on me, in order to survive.
Today, I am so very grateful to my friends and family, real and virtual alike… because they don’t need me to make them float and hold their heads above water, when the one teamed up with Big C, for the time being, is actually me. They’re worried, of course. More than worried… yet, they’ve succeeded in remaining themselves; bright, gentle, loving and smart people, giving me warm hugs without pitying me, cracking horrible and wildly amusing jokes about life and death without observing me from the corner of their eyes if I was to smile or bawl… in short, they are the same old bright, gentle, loving and smart people they used to be, and I’m serene, and I do feel supported this way. So that I can take care of myself, and survive, for my own sake… and their beloved, dear sake as well. I love you guys, have I told you yet? If not, then I’m telling you right now, so that you know… and please continue being your usual, fabulous, crazy, annoying and so very lovable selves, nursing me back to life.