What stayed with me most wasn’t only the word cancer. It was everything that happened after the word entered the room—the waiting, the unanswered questions, the wondering about what your nephew knows, what he has shared, what he may still be trying to protect his mother from, and the way uncertainty starts filling every empty space with possibilities.
That line—“The unknown is the cruelest of all adversaries”—feels like the heart of this piece.
Because right now there isn’t even a clear enemy to fight. There are possibilities. Appointments. Questions. A family trying to prepare itself for something it cannot yet define.
And I found myself thinking about your nephew too. I understand why your sister is devastated that he didn’t tell them, but I can also see the love—perhaps frightened, imperfect love—in his decision to try to spare his mother after what your family has already been through. He may have been trying to carry something alone so she wouldn’t have to carry it until there was something certain to carry.
That doesn’t make the secrecy painless. But it makes it painfully human.
Then you arrive at the question underneath everything:
“How do I do this with her?”
I don’t think there is a beautiful answer to that.
Maybe you don’t get her through it.
Maybe you simply keep going through it with her.
You answer when she calls. You sit in the uncertainty when there is nothing useful to say. You let her be frightened without trying to make the fear disappear. You remind her to eat, breathe, sleep, and come back to what is actually known when her mind races ahead.
And when reality finally arrives—whatever that reality is—you meet that together too.
Your closing note may have affected me most of all. After an entire piece filled with questions, you end with one thing we actually can control:
Put the phone down.
Tell somebody you love them.
Spend the time.
We spend so much of our lives assuming there will be another ordinary day available later.
There is something sobering about being reminded that ordinary time with the people we love is not ordinary at all.
I’m hoping very much that when your sister sits beside her son and finally hears the answers directly, they are far better than all the possibilities everyone has been carrying in the meantime. ❤️
Alexandra, this one hurt to read. ❤️
What stayed with me most wasn’t only the word cancer. It was everything that happened after the word entered the room—the waiting, the unanswered questions, the wondering about what your nephew knows, what he has shared, what he may still be trying to protect his mother from, and the way uncertainty starts filling every empty space with possibilities.
That line—“The unknown is the cruelest of all adversaries”—feels like the heart of this piece.
Because right now there isn’t even a clear enemy to fight. There are possibilities. Appointments. Questions. A family trying to prepare itself for something it cannot yet define.
And I found myself thinking about your nephew too. I understand why your sister is devastated that he didn’t tell them, but I can also see the love—perhaps frightened, imperfect love—in his decision to try to spare his mother after what your family has already been through. He may have been trying to carry something alone so she wouldn’t have to carry it until there was something certain to carry.
That doesn’t make the secrecy painless. But it makes it painfully human.
Then you arrive at the question underneath everything:
“How do I do this with her?”
I don’t think there is a beautiful answer to that.
Maybe you don’t get her through it.
Maybe you simply keep going through it with her.
You answer when she calls. You sit in the uncertainty when there is nothing useful to say. You let her be frightened without trying to make the fear disappear. You remind her to eat, breathe, sleep, and come back to what is actually known when her mind races ahead.
And when reality finally arrives—whatever that reality is—you meet that together too.
Your closing note may have affected me most of all. After an entire piece filled with questions, you end with one thing we actually can control:
Put the phone down.
Tell somebody you love them.
Spend the time.
We spend so much of our lives assuming there will be another ordinary day available later.
There is something sobering about being reminded that ordinary time with the people we love is not ordinary at all.
I’m hoping very much that when your sister sits beside her son and finally hears the answers directly, they are far better than all the possibilities everyone has been carrying in the meantime. ❤️
Nothing should be taken for granted, because not a single moment is guaranteed.