Years before I had my cancer, my elderly neighbour would say to me that I rush too much – take out 10 minutes and sit out back with cup of tea. We have a lovely quiet vista living in a cul de sac backing on to Lane Cove National Park, overlooking the cool waters of our pool. Anyone who knows me will tell you, of course, I never did.

We have lived in this house over nine years now. It wasn't until around two years ago, weighed down by the effects of chemotherapy that I realised we had a Christmas tree in our backyard. A Christmas tree changes from evergreen to one with red foliage at Christmas. I had never noticed it before.

The cancer journey has been a tough ride for our family, as it is for most. The biggest challenge for me is accepting I might not see my children finish school. At first I would get cranky hearing people bemoan the mortality brought on by this disease as they talked of the birth of their third grandchild. Instead of gaining compassion I lost it. I had less tolerance for people's woes about their aching back, children who would not study, or not being able to afford that new car

But as my neighbour says, “It is better to be born lucky than rich.” Almost anyone on the cancer journey will tell you stories of how they now cry with joy knowing that their family is so special, how those they hardly knew showed such kindness, and yet other close friends shunned them. Cancer is scary. Maybe it is not contagious, but sometimes people are not so sure. When dealing with a person with cancer, the other person is forced to face their own mortality and the clear fact that this disease is indiscriminate. Few do anything to create their cancer. It puts fear in their face.

So those of us dealing with the challenges of this illness have been given a wonderful gift. We know those who walk with us on this journey really are our friends. I would rather have won Lotto to check out that theory but feel blessed nonetheless!

And what other wise words has my neighbour for me? “Do nothing, nothing happens; do something and something might.”

He lost his wife some years ago to a dementia style illness – he understands the drudgery of living with chronic disease. And he is the first to try new ways of solving his health issues – maybe ginger will settle his stomach or liquorice for his eyesight. He is the perennial optimist and asked how he is, regardless, the response is “no complaints”. He supports me in my faith that medicine keeps changing quickly and that maybe the right drug is only a few months away or the complementary therapy will help.

And how did he get to the ripe old age of 85 so healthy? He never forgets to say thank you or to appreciate the smallest of gestures. Being without family of his own and us being relocatees, it was easy for us to adopt each other. He came from poverty, worked through the war and still remembers to give back to all those who helped him on his way.

And that seems to be what it is all about. Cancer forces us to recognise what is important in this earthly world. And most people come to believe that it is their relationships that matter most. I so appreciate everyone who is willing to take my hand and walk a little way on my cancer journey with me. Sometimes they have to hold me, a lot of the time we laugh. And although in the end, we have to part paths, right now I am going to make the most of having that cup of tea.


Reproduced with the kind permission of Lyndal Holt. This article was first published in The Word is Out, the newsletter of the Cancer Support Centre-Jacaranda Lodge, Sydney Adventist Hospital, Autumn 2007 (Vol 6 Issue 2). www.sah.org.au.