My diary of thoughts penned down for a father and friend

What you need to know:

I don’t think I can ever be in Rick’s shoes because he is a father of a son diagnosed with cancer and I’m just his son’s doctor. It’s just too hard to switch spots and even begin to understand what each is going through.

I’ve always wanted to pen down about a friend of mine, Rick, but I never had the right words. He is the father of a beautiful son named Sam.

I don’t think I can ever be in Rick’s shoes because he is a father of a son diagnosed with cancer and I’m just his son’s doctor. It’s just too hard to switch spots and even begin to understand what each is going through.

Since Sam is now responding well with treatment and has progressed immensely, I’m able to look six months back and mull over the world of parents, especially fathers like Rick, whose children are diagnosed with cancer.

Mothers are equally affected, not to forget.

One aspect I recall vividly in Rick and Sam’s case, is how they held onto one another when I had to reveal the ‘big’ news.

Rick’s wife on the other hand, did not take it well. Her knees weakened, she gripped tightly on my table and screamed. I looked back at Rick while he had a steady stream of tears running down his face. He asked, “So what’s next doctor? What do we have to do?”
To all the family and friends of a loved one diagnosed with cancer, I know how you feel.

I understand the sharp pain in your gut, as you are consumed by agony and overwhelmed by sudden changes in all your lives, while the way forward seems to take a blind corner.

It’s not you who has cancer. But you have to watch your loved one go through it. It may be a different set of emotions but those emotions are very valid and need to be talked about, just like the case of my friend Rick.

This is my message

I see your strength and I see your sorrow. I see your stomach churn with hope and worry as you continue your days at work, at school, wondering how to prepare for the crippling unknown.

But you’re not the victim here, it’s not yours to analyse or gauge upon. It’s someone you love who has been diagnosed. And here you sit, reading these words, while they live and they breathe. But you think, for how long?

I see questions and memories flash through your eyes like ticker tape. I see your confusion and struggle. I see your fear.

How do we interact with the world? What is the correct response?  Are we entitled to one? It’s not our experience but they are ours.

They are our parents, our grandparents, our husbands and wives, our best friends. We feel lost but at the same time encouraged by well-wishers and convinced it will all be fine.

And you can neither see nor touch it.

Until you are enveloped by 30 seconds of silence and survival instincts as your brain tries to prepare your heart for the worst, a world without them.

And now you are traitor. You’ve broken unspoken promise to not go there. Some understanding that you will commit your thoughts to world without it but not without them.

And you feel a rush of emotions, a distraction.

I see you choking back tears and wearing a mask of synthetic comfort. I might not have anything for you, but remember, you are not alone.

The author is a doctor based in Muhimbili National Hospital.