My cancer framily

The Mel-I-am through 'friends like family'; how to be part of a cancer crew

November 2020: post surgery, pre-chemotherapy, I am a spaghetti of emotions. Pull on one strand, find terror. On another, disbelief. A third, anguish. One morning, a parcel arrives wrapped in brown paper with a handwritten label. I sit on the sofa and open it to find a home-baked cake. Apple and cinnamon if I am not mistaken. My precious friend Bea has sent it along with two pairs of ‘good luck my queen; balls to cancer’ knickers with the instruction to wear them during treatment. Bea, however, lives in Switzerland and due to a combination of covid mayhem and Brexit, the parcel took 12 days to arrive. The knickers are jaunty and fresh. The cake, frosted with a sage-green mould, is sadly not.

Bea sent the remarkable gift of laughter.

A cancer diagnosis is devastating. During the pandemic, it is diabolical. Many people receive the news via telephone from a faceless consultant. No nurse to catch them as they tumble. Fear is the unwelcome friend that accompanies patients to chemotherapy sessions. I sob, shake, hyperventilate in a state of terror as Sarah drives me to the hospital for surgery. How she is able to let me go, we will never know. One version of myself is sucked backwards at speed, in retreat. I am in a science fiction film; none of this is real. Another self untangles from Sarah’s arms, wipes away the tears, fixes her mask tightly and enters a universe where a whole half of her left lung is to be removed. I am not a Mel I recognise, she has been sacrificed to cancer. Nor do I have a loved one with me to remind me who I am.

In order to live, I detach. I am unwell and unMel.

My true, Mel-self is a shadow. Grey, un-vibrant, there but not there, shaded out. Attached to me but not visibly me.

As I recover at home, nobody can visit. Shielding (ah, the lexicon of covid) means that the balm, the joy, the distraction of loving humans is a no-no. Cue the cancer crew. My Greek chorus, the cast of wonder people who support the Melodrama taking place in our household. My framily throw love at me like confetti.

After surgery and before further treatment, I recline consumptive-like in the garden, in bed or on the sofa soaking up the September sunshine and the love. At one point, 19 vases of exquisite bouquets sent by loved ones live alongside us. Caring for these blooms becomes a joyful and important distraction. Sarah trims their stems, replaces their fuggy water, admires individual ones with me. A scented pink stock; a blousy, pale apricot rose named The Lady Gardener. She reads me the cherishing words that accompany each delivery. Sarah looks after them in place of us being looked after. The flowers are the friends.

I am encircled by a daisy chain, a garland of love.

During chemotherapy, for days, weeks, months, I am numbstruck. I speak to not a soul, other than Sarah and my children. And sometimes, not even to them. Digital communication, I cannot manage. Talking is not an option. There are not words. There is nothing I can say. The experience is beyond; I cannot formulate it into language. It just is. I am no more than my own shadow.

The gestures of love keep on gesturing. Mementos and gentle words; acts of kindness and love in honour of well Mel. Prints, poems, posies, photos of younger selves, cookies, all manner of baked lovelinesses in the post. Charms, scarves, books, a beaded necklace and food parcels. Supplements, crystals, and nourishing unctions. Offers of seaside and rural places to rest my weary body during recovery. I am in someone’s heart. I existed. I will exist again.

A friend delivers a home-made Indian feast. One drives from Soho for no other reason than to leave happy daffodils on the doorstep. Another sends a dozen bars of dark chocolate because one, surely one, may awaken a tastebud. A colleague sends a postcard full of colour and cheekiness every week. A work team sends delightful, hilarious updates of their sponsored walk for a cancer charity. A darling soul drives from South East London just before Christmas to deliver a winter-flowering jasmine and a broad, dishy smile.

My Finnish friend (no stranger to the cold) in a hat, gloves and wool scarves stands the legal two metres away from our door many times just to catch a glimpse of my poorly self. Another beautiful human messages Sarah every day for Mel updates and most importantly to ask in her devastatingly gentle manner, ‘and how are you?’

Anna-next-door who every Friday (every one) without fuss, with no onus on us to say yay or nay, with no menu options, knowing that sometimes I am too sick to look, let alone taste, passes a vegetarian supper from her blue front door to our pink one.

True friends and sisters; fristers. My kind, precious soulmates, hearts full of compassion; no hugs but so much love exchanged.

These gestures are the scent of a freshly baked loaf I cannot eat; the birdsong I cannot hear; the hug I cannot receive. I begin to breathe in the comfort and softness and wonder. Each one lifts me up; sometimes a millimetre above my cancer crater. Sometimes to the earth, to the flowers beds, to the trees. They bolster me; bring me around for a moment. Lift the corners of my mouth. Bring a twinkle to my dulled eyes. I am reminded of who I was. Who, in fact, I am.

Most extraordinary and poignant and heart-bursting and tearful-making are the Iloveyous exchanged between us. Not the ‘love you’ that has become used commonly as a goodbye. Rather, I feel love for you. For you, I feel love. I am no more loved than anyone else in my framily. But at this moment, in truth, I am. And I am so very thankful for this excess in my hour of distress.

In my darkest moments, I visualise in technicolour these people beaming at me, standing with me, giving me strength. Urging me on, holding me. From their enforced distance, they offer reassurance and comfort.

We cancer patients don’t always feel human or part of the human race. Our senses are dulled; sometimes disabled altogether. The whole damn experience is so much worse when we feel untouchable, unloved, unseen. Or an object of pity. Or a person to be avoided. Know someone diagnosed or recovering from cancer? Please let them know you see and love them. You don’t have to use the ‘c word’. Send a card, a note, a voicenote, a meme. Give a smile. Leave a flower on their doorstep. If they do not respond, keep up your campaign of love. There is no wrong thing to say; apart from saying nothing.

Suleika Jaoud explains in her formidable book, Between Two Kingdoms, that there is not a clear line between wellness and unwellness. It is not a binary state. It is murky. We are all in, what she calls ‘the messy middle’. The well are not the dominant tribe with the unwell consigned to miserable exile. All are welcome in the healing garden.

Remind your loved one of who they are, who they will be again. Remind them that the seasons pass. That the sun shines brightly; they will feel this warmth, this remarkable brightness, this energy on their skin, in their bones. One day soon.

And if in doubt, send them a pair of silly pants.

About lung cancer in the United Kingdom

Lung cancer can affect any of us. Even those who have never smoked.

In 2022, 36,886 people were diagnosed with lung cancer.

Around 7000 are diagnosed with EGFR+ lung cancer each year.

Oncogene-driven lung cancers - like ALK, EGFR, RET, ROS1, KRAS and others are often diagnosed in younger people who may have no detectable risk factors. Some are as young as seventeen.

Find out more about lung cancer:

Roy Castle Lung Cancer Foundation

EGFR Positive UK

Oncogene Cancer Research