Loving Her From Here: What a friend's cancer diagnosis taught me about showing up when I couldn't be there

A few days ago, Renee's brother-in-law called.

He's also a close friend, so when I saw his name come up on my phone, I answered without giving it much thought. His voice was calm, but there was something underneath it that told me this wasn't an ordinary conversation.

"I wanted you to hear this from me before you talked to Renee," he said.

Then he told me she has cancer.

I don't remember much of what was said after that. I remember looking out the window. I remember my heart sinking. Mostly, I remember sitting there after we hung up, letting the news settle into a place that didn't want to receive it.

Renee and I have known each other since high school. We actually had a crazy, amazing graduation summer in Lake Tahoe that we’ll never forget. If you know her, you know she's one of those people who has always taken good care of herself. She's active. She eats well. She's thoughtful. She's kind. She has always had this gentle, beautiful spirit that draws people in.

Of course, none of that has anything to do with cancer.

Cancer doesn't stop to ask whether you've lived a healthy life. It doesn't check whether you've been generous or kind, or whether you've taken care of your body. It doesn't make exceptions for good people.

Nobody deserves cancer.

Nobody.

As heartbreaking as that phone call was, I've realized there was an unexpected gift in hearing the news this way.

It gave me a little time before I called Renee.

Time to let my own tears come. Time to settle my emotions. Time to think about the kind of friend I wanted to be instead of making her carry my fear while she was already carrying something so much heavier. 

That little pause has helped me to decide how I want to respond for my friend.

Instead of wondering what I should say, I found myself asking a much better question.

How do I show up for her and let her know I love her?

That question stayed with me for days.

If Renee lived here in Montana, I know exactly what I'd be doing. I'd be making a pot of soup. I'd be walking her dog if she had one. I'd be running errands, folding laundry, sitting beside her at appointments, or simply showing up with tea and saying, "You don't have to entertain me. I'm just here."

But she doesn't live here.

She's 1,229 miles away.

For a little while, that distance made me feel helpless. I kept thinking about all the things I couldn't do instead of all the things I still could.

Whenever life hands me something I don't understand, I usually become a student. I start reading, listening, asking questions, trying to understand what people much wiser or more experienced have learned.

This time was no different.

I wasn't interested in researching cancer itself. I wanted to understand friendship. I wanted to hear from people actually living with cancer. What did they wish their friends knew? What made them feel genuinely supported? What accidentally made things harder?

As I read, one message kept appearing.

Please don't disappear.

That sentence settled deeply into me because the truth is, I haven't always known how to stay.

When I was younger, someone else's pain often overwhelmed me. If a friend lost someone they loved or was walking through something I couldn't fix, I felt their heartbreak so deeply that I didn't know what to do with my own emotions. Instead of leaning in, I sometimes pulled back.

I loved them, but I felt helpless. I simply hadn't learned yet that love doesn't require answers.

Looking back, I carry regret about that. There are people I wish I had shown up for differently. People who probably didn't need my wisdom or my solutions nearly as much as they simply needed my presence.

Age has taught me many things, but this lesson may be one of the most important.

Empathy isn't having the perfect words. Compassion isn't rescuing someone from their pain. It's becoming steady enough to stay close even when life hurts.

Somewhere along the way, I realized another person's suffering isn't something I have to run from. I don't have to explain it away. I don't have to search for silver linings before they're ready to see them. I don't have to convince anyone that everything will be okay because, in truth, I don't know that.

I can simply sit there with them…and stay while.

That realization has changed every important relationship in my life.

One of the things that touched me most as I read stories from people living with cancer was how many said they appreciated the friends who remembered they were still themselves. Of course they wanted people to care about appointments and treatments, and they appreciated prayers and encouragement. 

But they also wanted someone to ask about the book they were reading.

Or the flowers blooming in the yard.

Or the grandkids.

Or the dog that still insisted on chasing squirrels.

Or the movie everyone was talking about.

They wanted someone to remember they were still living a life, not just managing an illness.

That got to me.

Renee is still Renee.

She still laughs.

She still has opinions about books and movies.

She still remembers high school stories that make us laugh decades later.

She still has dreams, memories, friendships, and a beautiful life that extends far beyond a diagnosis.

Cancer is something she is facing. It isn't who she is.

That changed the way I decided to show up.

Yes, I'll ask how she's doing.

Yes, I'll celebrate every piece of good news and sit with her through the hard days…even if it’s from a distance.

But I'm also going to send pictures of Lou when he does something completely ridiculous. I'm going to text her when I discover a Netflix series I think she'd love. I'm going to mail her cards, and not all of them will be serious. Some will be funny because laughter has always been part of our friendship, and I refuse to let cancer steal that.

I'll probably tell her when my tomatoes finally decide to grow or complain that the rabbits have once again mistaken my flowers for their personal salad bar.

Those little pieces of ordinary life may seem insignificant. I don't think they are.

When life suddenly becomes filled with scans, lab work, treatments, waiting rooms, and uncertainty, ordinary life becomes precious.

One of the most helpful things I learned from people who have walked this road is that support doesn't have to be over-the-top. Sometimes it's remarkably simple.

A handwritten card.

A meal that appears without having to ask for it.

A friend who says, "I'm going to the grocery store. What can I pick up for you?" instead of, "Let me know if you need anything."

A text that says, "No need to answer. I was just thinking about you."

Those small acts tell someone they haven't been forgotten.

And that might be what all of us are hoping for during the hardest seasons of our lives.

As I continued reading, another truth nugget made its way into my heart.

The first few weeks after a diagnosis are usually filled with support. The phone rings constantly. Cards arrive in the mailbox. Meals appear on the doorstep. People reach out because they're shocked, they're scared, and they genuinely want to help.

Then something happens.

Life begins to return to normal for everyone else, but not for the person living with cancer, of course. Their appointments continue. Their treatments continue. The waiting continues. The uncertainty continues.

That may be one of the loneliest parts of all.

It made me think about so many of life's difficult seasons. The death of a spouse. A divorce. Depression. Caring for aging parents. Losing a child. Losing a dream. In the beginning, we're surrounded. Then, almost without anyone intending it, the world moves on while the person living through it is still living through it every single day.

I don't want to be one of the people who slowly fades away.

I want Renee to know that six months from now, she'll still be on my mind. A year from now, she'll still be on my mind. Whether she's celebrating wonderful news or walking through another difficult day, I hope she never wonders if the people who love her have forgotten.

One piece of advice came up so often that I found myself smiling every time I read it.

Don't say, "Let me know if you need anything."

I've said those words many times, and every single time I meant them.

But imagine trying to understand medical language you've never heard before, making treatment decisions, juggling appointments, answering messages from worried friends and family, trying to sleep, trying to eat, trying to keep your own emotions from running away with you... and then someone asks you to figure out how they can help.

That's a lot to ask of someone whose world has just been turned upside down.

Specific kindness is easier to receive.

"I'm bringing dinner on Tuesday."

"I have Thursday afternoon free if you'd like company."

"I'm heading to Costco. What can I bring?"

"I'd love to walk the dog this week."

Those aren't just offers.

They're gifts.

In Renee's case, I have something else to be deeply grateful for.

She has remarkable family.

When they learned about her diagnosis, they rearranged their own lives, rented an Airbnb, and simply showed up. They didn't wait until everything was convenient. They didn't wonder whether someone else would step in.

They came. Knowing that brings me enormous peace. It also reminds me that love isn't something we measure.

Sometimes we think, She already has plenty of support. She doesn't need another text from me.

I don't believe that's true anymore.

Love doesn't compete with another’s love.

One more person praying.

One more person checking in.

One more handwritten note.

One more memory shared.

One more smile.

Those things don't become less valuable because there are many of them. They become the net that holds someone when they're having a difficult day.

As I've thought about all of this, I keep coming back to something I wish I'd understood years ago. When someone we love is hurting, our instinct is often to make the pain go away.

We search for encouraging words.

We tell stories about people who beat impossible odds.

We look for something hopeful to say because silence feels so uncomfortable.

The problem is that our discomfort isn't the issue. Theirs is.

Sometimes the most loving thing we can do is stop trying to make pain disappear and simply acknowledge that it's there.

"I'm so sorry."

"I'm here."

"I love you."

Those words may be enough. They don't fix anything. They aren't supposed to. They simply remind another human being that they aren't carrying the weight alone.

I've also been thinking about something that probably surprised me more than anything else.

This blog really isn't about cancer. 

It's about friendship.

Cancer just happened to be the circumstance that made me ask a deeper question about what friendship looks like.

When we're young, we often think friendship is built around shared experiences. Going places together. Laughing together. Celebrating together.

As we get older, friendship becomes something quieter. It becomes showing up after surgery. Sending the birthday card even when birthdays feel different. Remembering the anniversary of a difficult loss. Calling months later when everyone else has stopped asking how they're doing.

Real friendship isn't measured by how loudly we love.

It's measured by how consistently we stay.

That may be one of the precious gifts of growing older.

I've become far less interested in saying exactly the right thing. I'm much more interested in simply being there.

Maybe wisdom looks a little like that.

We don’t need answers or solutions.

Just a steady heart.

Renee, if you ever read this, I hope you know something.

You have an army of people who love you.

Some are bringing meals.

Some are driving you to appointments.

Some are sitting beside you in waiting rooms.

Some are praying.

Some are cheering for every good report.

Some of us are loving you from several states away.

Until I can hug you again, you'll probably find a few cards in your mailbox. Some thoughtful. Some funny. Maybe one with a cartoon that makes absolutely no sense except it made me laugh and I thought it might make you laugh too.

You'll probably get a random text recommending a movie or a Netflix series. Or a picture of the adorable bunny I saw on my morning walk.

You may hear about Lou doing something silly or my tomatoes finally deciding to produce after making me wonder if they'd forgotten.

You'll probably hear me complain about the deer or the rabbits eating my flowers again, and not because I've forgotten what you're going through. 

Because I haven't.

Because I want to remind you, every chance I get, that you're still living your life. You're still my friend. You're still the same wonderful woman you've always been.

Cancer doesn't get to take that away.

And you can be assured, while I'm walking Lou along the river, watering my little garden, or simply standing in my kitchen making dinner, your name will come into my heart.

When it does, I'll stop for just a moment.

I'll close my eyes.

I'll send every loving, hopeful thought I have your way.

Some people call that prayer.

Some call it positive energy.

Some simply call it love.

The name doesn't matter nearly as much as the intention.

I've believed for a long time that love matters. I believe it even more today, and not because love always changes the outcome. Sometimes it doesn't. But love always changes the journey.

It reminds us that even in the hardest times of our lives, we are seen. We are remembered. We are loved. 

And maybe that's what we do when we don't know what to do.

We stay.

We keep reaching out.

We keep finding little ways to say, "I'm still here."

Because love...

Love is still all there is.

Diana