My wife’s approach to cancer teaches me to be a better person
Over the 22 years of our marriage, my wife’s dedication as an oncology nurse — often working exhausting overnight shifts — has not only defined her professional life but has deeply influenced our family dynamics and personal interactions.
Her schedule was erratic, switching between 7 p.m. — 7 a.m. work shifts, and trying to stay up to be with us on her days off. When we had kids, she voluntarily forewent sleep for days to do everything she could for our children.
The work she did was incredibly challenging. As an oncology nurse working with a long-term patient population, she saw death all the time, and people at their absolute lowest. In addition to her actual responsibilities, she went out of her way to provide comfort in her patients’ last moments, and support for their families.
Her dedication and hard work pushed her forward to help others at every opportunity. I had no frame of reference to gauge whether the effort she put in was normal or extraordinary, but I got a better idea of when she began garnering recognition and winning awards for her work.
A couple of years ago, she transitioned to a daytime role, which marked a significant shift; she brought home not just her presence but a newfound energy that infused our evenings with laughter and warmth, revealing sides of her I am still discovering. I was and still continue to be so happy that we get to spend our nights together, eat dinner as a family, and enjoy our time with one another.
When she switched to day shift, I met a new person. The woman who understandably struggled to stay awake through the evening was suddenly vivacious, humorous (don’t tell her I admitted that), and ready to take on the world.
This surge in vitality not only rejuvenated our family life but also expanded her social circle even further, attracting everyone with her charismatic and caring nature. I love it. I love her. I love continuing to get to know this new person I have known since the last millennium.
I have yet to meet a person who doesn’t love her and enjoy getting to know her. Her circle is vast.
For context, I am not a social being. I am riddled with anxiety and quite prone to depression. I do not go out of my way to make friends, and am more likely to bail on plans than to show up. It’s not that I don’t want to be social, it’s just that I struggle. A lot.
My wife, as you can imagine, is the opposite. She will go out with five strangers and, somehow, leave with six new friends. It blows my mind.
Despite her vibrant social interactions and indefatigable spirit, life threw us a curveball recently when she was diagnosed with triple-negative breast cancer, as well as an unrelated benign brain tumor and spinal tumors. It has forced her to consciously slow down a little bit, but has not changed who she is as a person at all.
After a whirlwind trip to see Adele in Las Vegas — which was canceled — she came home, took a brief nap, and then went in for a brain scan. They admitted her that night and she promptly had surgery to remove the tumor.
She had one primary concern about herself, and she brought it up to her surgeon.
“Am I still going to be funny?”
The surgeon confirmed that she would.
The second she woke up from surgery, she asked if the kids got to school ok and if our daughter got to her doctor’s appointment. After telling her they did, she had one more question.
“Is the anesthesiologist ok? He looked sad. I want to make sure he’s ok.”
The doctors and nurses did not know, but they were doubled over in laughter as she spoke. Thankfully, she was still funny.
As word of her surgery spread, the community’s response was immediate and overwhelming, mirroring the support she has always extended to others. Her sister drove down from New England as soon as she heard. A friend flew in from Texas, another started a GoFundMe, and another a Meal Train. Friends organized as groups to provide all sorts of help, ranging from rides to financial guidance. The gifts kept coming; clothes, books, candy, and anything else you can imagine.
So many words of kindness that came her way echoed the same sentiment: She puts so much good out into the world, and now it was coming back to her — and it came in droves.
Later, when we were alone, she teared up, feeling guilty that people were doing this, and that she did not do anything as if it was a favor people would pay back some day.
That is just who she is.
As she began her chemotherapy treatments, the influx of visitors continued, each person eager to offer the same warmth and support she has always provided. No matter who shows up, she focuses the conversation on them. If one visitor just had a birthday, and another has a kid who is struggling in school, she knows about it and asks about it.
While the chemo drug, Taxol, typically makes people nauseous, she is a radiant beam of light, smiling from ear to ear — where here headband scar starts and ends — and fully invested in her guests.
Her indomitable approach to what she merely considers an ‘annoyance’ rather than a sickness teaches me daily about resilience, underscoring every lesson in how to truly be a better person. This really stuck out to me. It is not in my nature to think that way, but those words are beginning to have a profound impact.
I considered our differences to be counterbalances that kept everything in check, but now I find myself trying to make my mindset more like hers. I think we could all benefit from her philosophies:
Be kind and loving. Be altruistic. Be minimalistic. Be funny and laugh freely. Be a little bit of a hippie. Care selflessly and truly about others. Don’t let life get in the way of living. Go Phillies.
