Cancer.

Fuck cancer.

Fuck cancer sideways.

With a rake.

I was sitting on the same bouncy ball that I’m sitting on right now when my mum called me, telling me that my dad killed himself. He had cancer too, by the way. I’m not sure if I ever mentioned it. Lymphocytic leukemia. Cancer of the blood and bone marrow. I don’t think that he killed himself because of it, since he was surprisingly stable in terms of health. Cancer didn’t kill my dad, but it didn’t help him either.

I was sitting on the same bouncy ball when my sister notified me that she has cancer. Yes, my sister has cancer too. She’s a bit older than me, but not so much that it matters. Two kids, just like me. Lost her dad shortly before; just like me, obviously. She’s bound to lose her female body parts, if she’s lucky enough to make it that far.

My cousin had cancer too. She’s still alive, thank God. Her dad wasn’t as lucky. He died incredibly quickly, within weeks of the diagnosis. You guessed it: cancer. Cancer of the brain. They found out, and at the same time realized that there’s nothing they can do. I was still young when my uncle died—maybe 10 years old—maybe even younger than that—but even at that age I understood one thing deeply: cancer sucks. Massively.

A couple years later my uncle’s sister (my mum) got cancer, too. Breast cancer. I was maybe 12 or so, not sure, and it doesn’t matter. I was too young to spell the word “chemotherapy” without mistakes; but old enough to understand what it means when mum can’t get up from the couch for two days, barely able to hit the bucket when throwing up; old enough to understand that the red stuff that’s coming out isn’t just vomit, but blood.

My dad wasn’t home for most of it. He had to work and stuff. My sisters weren’t home for it either. One lived abroad at the time, the other had moved out already. It was just me, trying to comfort my mother as best as I could, bringing her glasses of water and some sort of menthol or sugar drops, which supposedly brought a little relief, if only for a moment, overriding the blood-and-stomach-acid flavor that was a constant companion at the time. Just me, and my mum of course, who was throwing up the water-and-drops mixture as soon as she was done drinking it. (And stomach fluid and blood and other horrible things after that. For two days straight. Sometimes three. Week after week.)

I was not sitting on the bouncy ball when my wife called me, telling me that she has cancer. Yes, my wife too. I was at a bitcoin event, scheduled to have a fireside chat. I decided to have the chat, not wanting to cancel things last minute. Not the best idea, since my mind was obviously elsewhere, resulting in me wasting everyone’s time and most everyone thinking that I was on drugs. I wasn’t. I was trying to process the fact that my wife might die, and what this cancer diagnosis might mean for us. For her, mostly. But also for me, and for our two little kids. Would they have to witness the same things that I witnessed? Mum dying on the couch, week after week? Blood, sugar drops, vomit? The agony that only a staring contest with death can bring?

My wife called me 12 months ago, give or take.

Reflecting back on the last 12 months. Wasn’t the easiest year for me and my family, but we’re stronger for it. “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” Count your blessings.

I wrote the above three days ago. Three days.

I wrote it because I remembered the thing I wrote at the time, when my wife was admitted to the hospital, to start her own journey of months and months (and months) of chemotherapy. I sat down in the corner of the cancer ward, watching mere shells of people walk by, some of them half my age—or younger still. I sat down and I started to write. I wrote about adoption (and other nonsense), not because I had something serious to say, but because I wanted to focus on something non-serious for a second. “Everything is ridiculous if one thinks of death.”

I wrote it because I was reflecting back on 12 months of hell. Explaining to a 5-year-old that mum might die? Hell. Falling asleep while the 2-year-old can’t stop crying because mummy isn’t here to cuddle and read bedtime stories? Hell. Going back-and-forth between two countries because treatment isn’t available in the place you just moved to? Hell. Providing emotional support for the in-laws who had nervous breakdowns on the regular? Hell. Sitting in the corner of the cancer ward, staring into the laptop, making sure that the machinery I’m responsible for doesn’t fall apart? Hell. Watching your better half deteriorate, lose weight, turn pale, lose any and all hair, even lose the will to live? Hell. Pretending that you’re fine in a conference call even though you just cried for an hour because your wife (and your life) is literally falling apart? Hell. Dealing with the logistics of it all? Hell.

One of the worst days for me was a regular day. Not the day of the diagnosis; not the day she lost her hair; not the days of her going through multiple operations; not the days the kids cried, or asked impossible-to-answer questions. A regular day. I got up early, trying my best to help with the kids. I got an hour or two of work done. I drove my wife to the hospital, or to some doctor or some other treatment facility. I prepared lunch, made sure that the kitchen is in order, and drove to get groceries. When I came back I learned that I got the wrong groceries. Not only wrong, but inadequate. My wife made a comment, and I’m sure she didn’t intend it, but it absolutely obliterated me. Devastated doesn’t even begin to describe it. I failed to take care of her. It almost killed me.

That’s what cancer does. It kills people. Emotionally, socially, and literally. It kills relationships. It kills normal life. Even if you survive it, against all odds, a part of you still dies.

My wife is through most of it, or so it seems. Cancer is in remission. Her hair is growing back. Her breasts will not, however. Neither will her fallopian tubes, or any of the other reproductive body parts they had to remove. No more kids for us, unfortunately.

“Reflecting back on the last 12 months.”

I wrote that three days ago.

Three days.

A lot can happen in three days.

Three days ago I thought that things would return to normal, whatever that means. I thought that I’d take my daughter on a trip this fall, to visit the family, visit my mum—her grandma—and spend some quality time with her. Visit the family of my dad, get some closure, process his death; or at least try to. The fact that my dad never met his granddaughter still pains me to this day.

You always think there’s more time.
Then all of a sudden, there’s no time left.

Three days ago I thought that I’d finally have some room to breathe.
Two days ago I learned that my mum got another cancer diagnosis.
Today I learned that she’s dying.

Right now.

As I am typing this sentence.

I was sitting on the same bouncy ball when my sister called me today. I answered. Bad news. Things are way worse than we thought. Tears. A short time later I was sitting on the floor, crying.

Déjà vu.

I like the bouncy ball because it reminds me to sit upright, to find the right balance. It takes a little effort to sit on it. You can’t fall asleep on it. It’s the only “chair” I have in my office, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

But it’s a terrible chair to receive bad news on. Part of your world got destroyed, and you can’t even slouch on it to deal with the devastation. When every fiber of your being is obliterated, when there’s no strength left to sit upright, when the only reasonable position is a collapsed heap of agony, when you just learned that time is running out, that your mum is dying way sooner than you thought she would… then the bouncy ball sucks.

Massively.

Just like cancer.