I learned I had cancer when I was 37 years old. I remember sitting in the sterile office and hearing the doctor talk like I was underwater. Everything grew hazy with the word “cancer.” At that point, I wasn’t thinking about treatment plans or numbers. I was thinking about my life, my kids, my job, and my husband. Everything that made me feel safe now felt feeble.
The treatment began immediately. Chemotherapy made me exhausted, my hair fell out in clumps, and I saw my face morph in the mirror into someone I barely knew. But I didn’t expect to feel so lonely, even though I was living with someone I thought loved me. At first, my hubby was there for me physically, but emotionally, he was leaving me. He started to pull away and lose his temper. He didn’t look me in the eye. They stopped checking in on me. And over time, he stopped coming altogether.
It was one of those long evenings when I couldn’t sleep because of therapy and being alone. That’s when I felt something click inside me. I knew I couldn’t trust him. Not really. So I started getting ready for that without saying anything. I opened a new savings account and put small amounts of money into it over the next few months. There was nothing strange or important enough to worry me, but it was enough to keep me safe. It felt horrible and even embarrassing at times, but I knew I had to do what I had to do to stay alive.
Seven months into treatment, when I was starting to feel better, something terrible happened. One morning, I woke up and saw that our shared bank account was empty. My hubby had gone. There was no long goodbye or note written by hand. My phone remarked, “It’s too hard to see you suffer.” I need to go on.
I stared at the screen for a long time. Then I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it showed that what I had been terrified of all along was true. He didn’t resign because it was hard; he quit because he couldn’t bear not being the center of attention anymore. And I wasn’t going to ask him to stay anymore.
He didn’t know that I had already let him go in my heart. He left the hospital early without saying goodbye the first time he ignored my screams. Even though he departed, it didn’t hurt me. Because I had already started to live my life without him.
I concentrated instead of spinning. I moved deeper into my healing, not just physically, but also emotionally, spiritually, and financially. I used the quiet nights to meditate, write in my journal, cry, and make plans. I reached out to those I had cut off because I was ashamed and proud. And they came.
My friends established a schedule for getting to and from appointments that changed every week. A neighbor I didn’t know well brought me food from home twice a week. I fell on the bathroom floor from being fatigued one day, and my best friend came over from across town to stay with me until I could get up. Because she observed that I came in alone every week, one of the oncology nurses gave me a silver bracelet with the word “Hope” on it. I wear it every day, not because it makes me sad, but because it reminds me that I was never really alone.
Every one of these moments put something back together inside me. They made me remember that not all help has to be loud or dramatic. The most loving things are frequently the ones that don’t say anything. Slowly, I began to feel complete again. I took care of my money, paid off as much debt as I could, and engaged a therapist who helped me deal with both the grief of being sick and the betrayal that came with it.
Last month, I got the call that changed everything: I was in remission. I held my breath and listened to the words over and over again. I cried, but not because I was terrified. I cried because I was free. I cried because I was thankful. I was thankful because I had realized that I had gotten through a scenario that could have killed me. I fought through the pain of being sick and the sadness of being left behind. And I was stronger than I had ever dreamed I could be.
Everything in my life is different now. I don’t go after people who can’t handle my pain. I don’t feel bad about seeking help, space, or time. The most important thing is that I don’t assess my worth by who stays. Instead, I’ve built something new that counts.
I’m putting up a small support group for those who are going through something they don’t think they can handle by themselves. It won’t be fancy, but folks could meet for coffee once a week or have a Zoom call where they can wear jammies and cry if they want to. But the point is clear: to let people know that getting healthy isn’t just about your body going back to how it was before. Getting your voice back is what it’s all about. It’s about discovering a new kind of strength in the ashes of what was.
This is what I know now: when someone leaves, they love you. Being left behind doesn’t mean you’re weak. The universe is just giving you a chance to finally stand up for yourself.
He left me in pain. But I got my control back.
And I will never give that up again.
