This Too Shall Pass

If you’ve followed my story so far from the beginning, you may have got the impression that I am a very independent person and –  under normal circumstances –  more than capable of looking after myself.

However, I have recently learned the hard way that sometimes we need to call upon others, or ask for some help. Not an easy call for me.

When I first received my breast cancer diagnosis, I found it too difficult to tell people myself, relying on text messages and WhatsApp to spread the word. Even to our adult children.

Carefully composing a message, then copying and pasting it to each in age order may seem like the coward’s way out, but sometimes it’s easier than having to deal with someone else’s emotional response while you’re still trying to process your own.

I’ve always preferred to be the one doing the helping rather than the one needing it. I suspect I’m not alone in that. It’s much easier to offer support than it is to accept it.

Cancer, however, has a habit of ignoring your carefully cultivated independence.

At first, I worried that I would become a burden. Then I began to realise something rather obvious. When we care about someone, we *want* to help. We don’t keep score. We don’t resent the phone call asking for a lift or the text asking if we can pick up a prescription. And if all we can do is leave a lasagne on someone’s doorstep, make a quick phone or video call, or simply let someone know we’re thinking of them, then that’s what we do. We do it because that’s what friends and family are for.

One friend, though, has found a completely different way to help.

We’ve been friends since we were thirteen, but she now lives in Ireland. There isn’t much she can do from several hundred miles away, so she bought a jigsaw puzzle.

A few days ago, an envelope arrived containing just three pieces and a card. After every round of chemotherapy, she’ll send me some more pieces. By the time my treatment is over, I’ll have every piece of the puzzle.

It struck me that those three little pieces were far more than cardboard.

Each one represented a phone call. A message. A lift to hospital. A doorstep delivery. A nurse who took an extra five minutes to chat. A family member quietly stepping in before I’d even asked. On their own, none of them might seem particularly significant. Together, they’re helping me complete a much bigger picture.

I’ve discovered that accepting help isn’t admitting defeat. It isn’t weakness. It’s giving other people the opportunity to show how much they care.

John Donne wrote that “No man is an island”, and, several centuries later, those words still ring true. We all like to think we’re self-sufficient, until life reminds us otherwise.

This journey may have started with my diagnosis, but it is been carried forward by hundreds of small acts of kindness. Like the pieces of that jigsaw, each one is finding its place.

None of us can complete the whole picture alone.