Hope Persists

Nothing cuts through the daily anxiety avalanche of retirement saving, bill paying, children nurturing, kitchen cleaning, weed pulling, or grocery shopping like cancer does.

The potential answer to when and how I die rudely shoves to the front of the attention line elbowing your breath away. It repeatedly steps on your hope. Your focus narrows so minutely as if a higher being is pushing your nose down to the pile of human fragility that is you cowering alone on the carpet. Yet hope persists.

It’s never a good thing when your family has a long Excel spreadsheet documenting the extent to which cancer’s monkeys are swinging on your family tree. My parents have had and survived cancer. Cancer had already taken my grandparents, my aunt, and my brother by the time the Cleveland Clinic confirmed a myxoid liposarcoma built a detestable timeshare in my right thigh. Its rotating occupants became my surgeon’s instruments, radiation, bone underpinning hardware, scar tissue, burns, pain, and infection. Witnessing the excruciating decay of my brother’s beautiful life only a few years earlier from bile duct cancer, I was all too aware of what happens when my candle of hope burns out. A talented psychiatrist, schooled in grief counseling, helped me find some new matches. In spite of the inevitability of a cancer diagnosis that the crown of my family history bestowed upon my generation, hope persists.

When you are deep in the muddy trenches of medical war, reinforcements show up. We are all broken, and that’s where the light gets in. Home cooked meals, laundry folding, encouraging phone calls, rides to appointments, nurses smiling at silly chicken balloons by your hospital bed, and just showing up on a random Thursday. That’s what cancer patients need and want. We need mentors that have been through this before. They teach us how to get help and have a plan. They coach us on which insurance landmines to sidestep. Most importantly, they know that action absorbs anxiety. The minute you get on with driving to that first appointment, you begin to feel better. You know it’s not going to be pleasant, but taking action is the fuel of hope that endlessly refills your tank.

So many people have put in hard work for my family that I can’t ever thank them enough. Though our internal human spirit can stand up to almost any adversity, we crumble seeing the impact on our families. The love illustrated in acts of service the community around me graciously provided are what kept me going. They cheer for your kids at the game your painful leg won’t let you attend. They coordinate a train of meals across your dinner table for weeks on end. They cut out and share articles from magazines. They offer their own sweet condolences in their own unique ways. All of it builds an unstoppable mountain of hope.

While cancer has robbed us of a lot, there’s far more that it can’t come close to touching. I’m forever grateful for the love and support that has been revealed to me, and more importantly, my family. It gives me hope that we all do really love and support one another. I may be forever scarred and disabled from cancer, but my strong crutch-carrying arms can still hug my wife and children. Sometimes the darkness makes it feel like we’re buried. Instead, think of it as being planted. Hope persists.

About the Author:

Andy Van Inwegen is a Spokane local, devoted husband, and proud father of two amazing kids. A Gonzaga University graduate, Andy works in application management and coordination software development. His connection to the non-profit Cancer Can’t began when his wife, Jackie, became its very first employee. Since then, Andy has been a dedicated volunteer, with his entire family playing a meaningful role in helping the organization grow. Cancer has touched Andy's life deeply—he stood by his brother through a courageous battle, and more recently, faced a diagnosis himself. Through it all, Andy remains a passionate advocate for the mission of Cancer Can’t and we are honored to have him contribute to our blog telling some of his story.