My mother Isobel discovered a little lump on the back of her upper right arm in March. It wasn’t painful, perhaps a little tender. Upon inspection, I concluded that she probably strained a muscle while gardening.
A month later, she saw a bump on the front of her arm, a palm-sized bicep swelling. Again, we suspected a sprain. Her primary care physician recommended her to a shoulder clinic.
On June 8, while waiting to be seen, Mother fractured her arm. She was opening the door to a café when she heard and felt a tremendous splinter.
After a week of X-rays and scans, she was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, a bone cancer, based on the findings.
As a former breast cancer surgeon who has been diagnosed with the disease twice, perhaps I should have anticipated this. However, the truth is that I, like most people, did not. No one did.
I was heartbroken she would have to endure what I had endured. In the United Kingdom, 150 people are diagnosed with breast cancer each day, whereas only 158 are diagnosed with osteosarcoma each year. This is how uncommon it is.
On July 13, four weeks after we heard the news, Mum’s right arm was amputated. Cancer had spread through the majority of the bone in her upper arm, and removing it presented the lowest chance of recurrence.
However, it was too late. We were informed after the procedure that cancer had already spread to her lungs. Now, it is incurable.
She and my father reside in the same village as I do in Suffolk, near Bury St. Edmunds, and I’ve been a general helper, transporting everyone to appointments and assisting.
She began chemotherapy at Addenbrooke’s in Cambridge last month. If she responds well, this could afford her extra time. We won’t know unless we attempt.
The most surprising aspect of this ordeal has been its difficulty. Being a retired cancer surgeon – my treatment rendered it physically impossible for me to continue – had not adequately prepared me.
As a patient, I was required to simply go through the motions. You attend regular visits and treatments. You must bear the adverse effects due to necessity.
But witnessing a loved one in pain or misery is much worse. You simply want to remove it. I feel such remorse for being unable to.
When I hear her screams of pain, I feel powerless. And I feel awful when I am overly helpful, treating her like an invalid because she has cancer rather than letting her ask for assistance when she needs it.
Despite being given the all-clear a few years ago, I imagined I’d pass away first and so never have to experience the pain of losing my mother. I am also gaining insight into what my death may entail if my cancer returns.
After receiving my breast cancer diagnosis, I decided to express my anger, uncertainty, and frustration via writing. I started a blog about my experiences and discovered a community of women with breast cancer who share stories and advice with candor and love.
Today, I am committed to increasing awareness and fostering dialogue about these most challenging topics. Talking helps. We cannot allow our concerns to prevent us from confronting the highly personal and frequently unsettling truths about cancer. It is something that one in two people will develop.
Every day, over 460 people in the United Kingdom passed away from cancer. Millions more are affected by it. Even if you “survive,” treatment can permanently alter your body and your life.
Therefore, it is crucial to know not only how to live well with the disease, but also how to assist a loved one in doing so. I’m pleased with how far I’ve gone since the first few months of my cancer journey, which were filled with terror. With Mom, however, I was back to square one.
Here are a few of the many things I wish I had understood at the outset…
HUMOUR HELPS… YET, SOME THINGS ARE NOT AMUSING.
Cancer patients have an unusually high prevalence of black humor. Mum had been on Twitter since 2019, happily identifying herself as ‘Liz O’Riordan’s mother’ to support my cause. Since she began writing about her diagnosis, however, she has amassed a massive new fan base.
The day before her amputation, she informed her almost 4,000 followers that she was about to become a ‘one-armed bandit’ She also referred to herself as the swashbuckling chemo grandma’ and remained optimistic.
I discovered the ‘one-armed bandit’ T-shirt online and she now wears it. Since then, we have laughed so much, and it has been a tremendous tension reliever.
However, I occasionally overstep the mark.
Mum explains how I once joked that I would inherit her engagement ring once she passed away. She just got quiet. It was quite a shock, and she was unwilling to face it. We discussed it afterward, and I offered an apology. I must recall that I had a head start and that my prognosis was more favorable than hers.
Mum is not yet prepared to go there, so I am learning to follow her lead. But if you can laugh, it indicates that life is not always bleak.
ENJOY LIFE’S SMALL PLEASURES
When we returned from the hospital following the diagnosis, my mother was unable to cook, so she and my father shared a chip butty and a Magnum ice cream. She naturally tweeted about it. One of her admirers even created the hashtag #BeMoreIsobel in honor of her tenacious spirit.
When the future is unknown, it is critical to appreciate these minor joys.
Before she was diagnosed with cancer, her mother enjoyed gardening and had planned to plant her borders. So, while she was recovering from her broken arm, we planted colorful bedding plants in them. She claims that witnessing the growth of living things brightens her mood and enriches her life.
Despite the difficulty, she continues to pursue activities that make her happy. She will apply lipstick and earrings, and she will bake scones and a Mary Berry banana loaf. She laughs that the most difficult part is removing the dough from the basin.
YOU CAN HELP… BUT DON’T FUSS
When I was receiving chemotherapy, I told my parents not to visit. I didn’t want them to witness my suffering. I later came to regret my action. I would have loved it if my mother had helped me get comfortable in bed, rubbed my forehead, or brought me a drink when my strength was so low.
This practical assistance is the most valuable. When Mom’s arm was broken, we assisted her with showering, dressing, and food preparation.
You may offer to fill their freezer with easy meals, trim their yard, change their bedsheets, or walk their dog if they are too shy to ask for assistance. However, take signals from your loved one.
We are aware that Mom appreciates everyone’s concern, but she does not wish for others to fuss.
BE PREPARED FOR THE END OF THE WORLD
There is no way to adequately prepare for the emotional effect of losing a loved one. But there are actions you may take to make the aftermath easier.
This is something I recently discussed on my podcast “Don’t Ignore The Elephant,” in which I have candid dialogues with guests regarding taboo topics.
Greg Wise, the husband of actress Emma Thompson, appeared on the show to discuss the death of his sister from breast cancer. He emphasized the importance of having a “death box.”
It need not be a box but should contain internet and banking passwords, washing machine instructions, copies of wills, funeral requests, and power of attorney documents. It is awkward to bring it up, but it is necessary. Mum and I are currently figuring things out.
A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE CAN BE DANGEROUS
When my mother was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, I went against my better judgment and immediately consulted the internet.
Two-thirds of patients survive five years, although this decreases to 10% to 30% after cancer has progressed. I understood they were merely digits. No one can predict whether you will be among the fortunate. But I was still terrified.
The ability to respond to chemotherapy is crucial. And we cannot forecast this. Mum has opted to follow medical advice. She says, “I’m certain I’ll want to learn more in the future.” They may claim that nothing is working. I’m taking it day by day.’
If you must search, obtain information from the major cancer charities and disregard the TikTok influencers.
RELATIVES CAN DETECT WHAT YOU’RE HIDING
My frantic Internet search led me to believe that my mother might not make it to Christmas. I attempted to be optimistic, but she saw through me.
She adds, “Within a day of my diagnosis, I knew Liz believed I was as good as dead and buried.” I despised the notion that my family was discussing me behind my back.
I despised the idea of causing Mom pain. It is a challenging path to navigate. Everyone, including patients and their loved ones, will fear the worst yet feel compelled to put on a brave front and remain doggedly optimistic.
Have someone to whom you can vent. It will help you worry less, allowing you to better support your loved ones when you are with them.
Find a way to discuss everything.
Mum met a fellow sufferer who referred to her illness as “Ethel.” She did this so that when friends asked, “How’s Ethel?”, they wouldn’t feel as gloomy bringing it up. She would inform them, “She’s being a bit of a pain” or “Ethel isn’t causing us too much trouble today.”
I am aware that, as a patient, you may feel immense guilt for putting your loved ones through so much stress, which can make you feel reluctant to seek assistance.
You are not required to name your cancer, but you should find a method to discuss it. If you are fearful or in agony, you must express yourself. Caregivers must also be able to listen.
When my mother was diagnosed with cancer, I went into autopilot, canceling plans to drive her to appointments and keeping myself busy to avoid dealing with my emotions. As soon as Mom recovered from her operation, the walls fell. I was unprepared for the severity of my depression.
I didn’t want to inform my mother that I was struggling, but it was necessary. Together, as best we can, we are overcoming this challenge.
Isobel will be featured on Dr. O’Riordan’s podcast, Don’t Ignore The Elephant, on Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, and Spotify on October 10. For further information about bone cancers, please visit bcrt.org.uk.
