“there just wasn’t a lot of space for me.”
he sounded young. he said he was 30, and joked about his long beard that was getting in the way of holding his phone between his ear and shoulder as he walked through toronto’s pearson airport on the way to nevada for work.
he had called to tell me his partner had just been diagnosed with a rare cancer and that her doctor had suggested he get in touch to connect with someone who knew what it was like. we started the conversation comparing stories about the path to diagnosis, side effects and how we explained the whole thing to our kids. when i asked him how he was doing, there was silence.
after all, it’s hard to be the one who is sick, for sure, but it’s damn hard to be the caregiver — to be the one responsible for hope when things look dire, the one expected to push back when the patient is too tired to put a foot down, and the one who never gets asked if they are alright. he admitted to feeling down, despite his wife’s good prognosis, describing a sense of powerlessness mixed with deep feelings of loss, anger and, the word that made his voice crack, invisibility. it was hard to put it into words, he said, but he had felt it before.
he talked about his brother, a great guy, he said, someone who had lived with serious mental health issues since he was a child. life with him has been “all hands on deck, all the time,” he explained, describing crisis as being the one constant in life for as long as he could remember. he spoke about his tired parents, endless ambulance rides and hospital visits and how hard he tried to make sure nothing he did or said added to his family’s stress. asking anything of his parents who were already overstretched felt unfair — from telling them about his school play which might seem like pressure to attend, to asking them to take him to buy new shoes were enough to cause him debilitating nausea. and then there was the guilt of being “normal,” while his brother failed at being like everyone else.