Please be aware that some of the content may be triggering. Please take care 💚
This is my view as a family member of someone who has been diagnosed with cancer, with particular relation to issues it causes to my longstanding mental illnesses.
Prognosis. What’s likely to happen? Are we looking at a time frame? Will treatment be a cure? Staging? Grading? All this suddenly comes up. Some of the things you don’t even realise until you’re in the middle of it. Like I didn’t realise there was a difference between the grading of a tumour and the stage of cancer. There is. (Grading looks at the speed and growth of the tumour, Staging looks at how much cancer there is and how much it has spread).
Prognosis was something that came into my mind straight away. I wanted to know if my mum would get better or did I have limited time with her. This was why there were many more tests required after diagnosis. We were pretty sure it had spread from a primary source to the liver and it was important to try and find the primary source. It was suspected to be in the stomach. The type of cancer my mum has (neuroendocrine) means the primary can be on one of many places and usually isn’t found until it has spread. As it was mum’s was an incidental finding during an operation.
To begin with we had a lot of confusion surrounding the prognosis. We were originally told it wasn’t curable but it was treatable. This sounded OK. Then we got the grading back and at first it was not the best outcome but a manageable one. Mum would have years. Within an hour we had another phonecall that changed that to it being more aggressive. Finally my mum asked for clarity on prognosis.
Eighteen months to two years life expectancy.
It was like a slap. We had never been led to believe this was the case at all. Mum just dissolved. Understandably. I just had to get out of the house (oh yes as it is covid times, her prognosis was given via a video appointment). I phoned my best friend and told her. Her response of “Shit” sums it up really. It was hard telling her. It was hard saying it out loud.
After a bit of tears, not many, I pulled it all in. I’ve buried it on the whole. I spoke briefly to the psychologist who did my last lot of therapy as I wasn’t sure about doing the group she wanted me to join. She told me to try and forget the time they had said and just go with it. After all it could be wrong. This I try to do but when you least expect it the words “eighteen months to two years” slap you in the face. I might not even get to 34 with my mum still here. My mum still has her mum at 63. It doesn’t feel fair. It’s unlikely she’ll see a grandchild.
I also feel a lot of guilt. We don’t always have the best relationship and I struggle with both ways of thinking.
The biggest thing that got me though was when I was stressing over all the chaos of cancer and someone said “it’ll get easier” and realising that it’ll only be easier, maybe, when she dies. Until then cancer will be there causing chaos. This has massively messed with my head. I’ve had nightmares. I’ve had panic attacks in the middle of the night. I cope by trying to just be practical and ignore it. But it gets to you in the end.