Closing this series about my cancer story, after nearly twenty years, is harder than I expected. In remembering what I went through, I reopened a wound I thought had long healed.
On recall, so many people touched my life, and not honouring their quiet involvement would be an injustice. Not only to them, but to me too.
Behind the immediate family members, my siblings, young and old, there was another set of hands. Wives and husbands. Some of those really wonderful people who helped heal me are not here anymore, and they are so sorely missed. Because it wasn’t just an “I’m here for you” thing. Physically and mentally, they gave up so much of their own time and personal life to stay true to me and Harsha, and for that, gratitude is not enough.
I forget, even now, that everyone who came and went from my life in those tough years had a life too. Maybe they were battling their own demons but never letting on. When I was stuck in that maelstrom, I instinctively took care of me. Now I wonder what they gave up to be by my side.
I truly feel that without the backbone of a complete family, my Cancer Story would never have seen the light of day. That complete family, if put to paper, would be like a roll call in a classroom — who is present, and who is not. Even now, as I write, names and places and hospitals keep popping their heads out and shouting, “What about me?”
And with that, I am forever grateful that I am here to tell the tale that very nearly never happened.
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