My best friend from college was diagnosed with cancer one month after me. I had surgery in June, she in July. Our chemo treatments began one week apart. I started first. Though we are treating different cancers, it was a comfort to be able to tell her what my experience was like beforehand.
We text back and forth frequently, laughing and occasionally lamenting. We share pictures of our shaved heads and what electrolyte drinks help for the side effects. As strange as it sounds, our concurrent diagnoses were an unexpected mercy. We are similar in temperament: straight shooters not prone to sentimentality, but equally devout in our love of the Lord. To be able to walk this road together has strengthened me in untold ways. To pray for her healing, that God would grant her length of days to see her children marry and have children of their own, is one of the great honors of my day.
There’s nothing quite like illness to heighten one’s experience of being a part of the body of Christ. And as St. John Paul II pointed out, “suffering unleashes love.” In myriad, creative ways.
The gift parade
After my diagnosis, I reached out to a woman who had taken a prayer practicum with me several years prior. She’d had cancer twice 30 years apart and I wondered if I could ask her some questions. Our conversation was immensely helpful and a week later, a huge box arrived from her. It was filled with tricks and tonics to help me through chemo: anti-nausea lozenges and teas, scent-free lotion because sometimes I cannot stand the smell of fragrances, tonics for mouth sores, recommended snacks for the day of the infusion, and a soft blanket with a few words of encouragement sewn into it, among other things. I have to fight my dog, Veronica, who cannot even read, to use it as she quickly claimed it for herself.
Cards offering prayers and Masses came flooding in, so much so I had to buy three more boxes of thank-you notes. A friend brought me holy oils and a relic from St. Charbel’s monastery in Lebanon. Another sent me a stuffed dinosaur because she read that somatic experiences, like hugging a toy, can help with pain — it does! Another friend hand-delivered vanilla milkshakes because I couldn’t stomach anything else. People I do not know reached out on social media to offer prayers. My brother, a priest with an extraordinarily demanding schedule, made time to bring the Eucharist, meals and anointing. As my hair decided to take a lengthy sabbatical, my sister sent me the prettiest assortment of head coverings. Two of my other sisters are coming to care for me, using their own time and resources to tend to me as my husband begins his new (and much better) job. And he has tended to me with heroic patience, tenderness and humor, never once making me feel like a burden.
Then there’s the blankets. One woman sent me a blanket bearing the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe, so I could literally wrap myself in her mantle. I do. There were blankets in multiple gift boxes and warm blankets draped over me during my infusions. Blankets, like soothing hugs, miraculously appearing from everywhere.
Oh loving, good Samaritan, I am profoundly aware of your presence in so many acts of love. You have stopped at the roadside of my suffering, anointed me, tended my wounds, and gathered me up to a safe place where a multitude of friends, family and strangers join you in caring for me. Lord, do not forget their kindnesses. Bless them a hundredfold. Perhaps, with a warm and lovely blanket? Amen.
Stanchina is the author of 13 books, a retreat leader and speaker. Visit her website at lizk.org or follow her on Instagram at LizKToday.
