Grief broke through like a bursting dam with a few simple words: “You have terminal cancer.” This initial shock instantly destroyed my identity, washing it away without even saying goodbye. A dramatic shift in who I am occurred that day. It left me grappling with places and spaces that constantly need to be mourned. There are thousands, if not millions, of daily griefs that I observe. When I begin to think of grief, my mind is much more likely to go toward many small moments that make up my cancer experience rather than the big initial shock. It is the small moments, the pain pricks showing up every day, that I wrestle with. They remind me of the fear I felt in that initial life-changing moment, but they also attach me to my story before cancer. The small griefs of daily living cling to past griefs I have never healed from. They remind me of future versions of myself that I will never experience. The disappointments, hurts, and broken places inside of me flicker for a split second like memories coming to life once again, every time grief is experienced. I have been living with cancer for ten years, so there is plenty of space for daily grief to be known. It is the sideways glance at my bald head when I enter a store, the absence of strength when I try to stand, and the uncertainty when discussing plans that initiate that old feeling of uncertainty. Surprisingly, my greatest grief is not found in mourning for my own death. Death is an abstraction that still seems far away. Instead, grief hides in the daily living of a life suddenly altered.
Life is much more about our grief and weaknesses than our strengths. In our weakness, we discover who we are. There is a significant difference between who we are and what we do. As I discovered with my cancer diagnosis, what I do can change at a moment’s notice, but who I am is not easily shaken. While our strengths provide us a facade of independence, our weakness teaches us to receive love, undeserved kindness, and compassion. It is through our weakness and our grief that we learn to look into the faces of others and find ourselves curious about who they are, and not only what they do. It is in grief that we discover how similar we all are. Each one of us hurts when those we love hurt. Each of us grieves for our own isolation, fears, and brokenness. To grieve is to be human.
When we are born, grief is our first response. We cry out in our first moments of life for the absence of the womb’s safety and warmth. We cry out in grief because of our perceived isolation, our fear of the newness of life, and because the bond with our mother has been broken. Though grief is present from birth to death, it is an experience we have not mastered. Its presence is a deep burden that cannot easily be put into words. For this reason, we tell stories. It is through stories of broken expectations, loss, and pain that we hope to ease the isolation of others caught in the grasp of grief.
My First Diagnosis, November 11, 2015:
When I was thirty-five, my children were two, four, and six. My life was filled with balancing my daughters’ desires for my attention and their needs. I was a teacher who came home and prepared the meals and snacks for my growing family. I loved being a wife, daughter, and sister, and spent as much time with family as possible. In fact, it was a desire to be with family that initiated our move from Murfreesboro, Tennessee, to Brentwood, California. In California, the girls would have eight cousins to grow up with. We wanted them to feel connected to a big family. So we loaded up our van, put our belongings in a storage box, and left my family in Tennessee to build new relationships with my husband’s family in California.
Our life was filled with adventure then. Raising three girls was an adventure, one that kept us second-guessing ourselves as every young parent does. Moving was definitely an adventure. Tennessee was wonderfully comfortable. I grew up there, understood the currents of the culture, knew how people thought and how they looked. I understood how to act and who to call when I needed help. It was a safe space. California, on the other hand, was wild to me. I didn’t understand what made people click, and after ten years of living here, I still don’t feel there is a consistent way of being. Tennessee is defined by its rivers, which flow predictably. California is known for its oceans, which crash on the beaches and pull anything in its path out to sea in dangerous and unpredictable ways. Californians feel much like the rock-lined, forty-foot swells that line their coasts; they are unpredictable.
When we moved to California, I was excited to embrace an adventure. I wanted to find a landscape that would excite and challenge me at every turn. Little did I know how challenging our lives would soon become. Three months after our cross-country relocation, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
At the age of thirty-five, with three little blonde-headed girls at home, I went to the doctor to receive a physical because I wanted to try for a fourth child. The lump in my breast, which I assumed was simply a swollen milk gland, concerned the doctor, so my appointment took a turn. I was referred to another doctor, but I had used up all the favors in my minimal network of acquaintances to find a sitter for my first doctor’s appointment. So when the new doctor, Dr. Z, called to set a second appointment, I tried to put her off, thinking of my responsibilities to the girls. At that moment, Dr. Z made a statement that shook me. She said if I did not take my health seriously, she would not be my doctor.
I was strong and capable. I had never given a moment’s thought to any physical concern. In fact, when my husband began his new job just a couple of months before, he said to me, “I have multiple insurance packages we can choose from. Why don’t you look and let me know which sounds best to you?” I responded, “Is there a price difference?” He said,” Yeah, one is free, and one costs $700.” I laughed and said, “That is all I need to know. Go with the free one; we are young, so what could go wrong?”
Dr. Z reminded me that no matter my age or what the girls needed from me, my first responsibility was to myself. I must see to my own needs before I can take care of anyone else. Dr. Z discovered I had breast cancer. I remember how reassuring she was. She told me it would be the most challenging year of my life, but I would make it through. At that time, I felt young and strong. I came to California looking for a challenge and had what I needed to face this one.
I was prescribed ACT chemotherapy (Adriamycin, Cyclophosphamide, Taxol), 30 days of radiation, a double mastectomy, reconstruction, and finally, to have my ovaries removed. This process took exactly two years.
My Second Diagnosis, December 21, 2017:
It was the last day of school before Christmas break. The height of holiday ecstasy filled our home as my children danced around the kitchen in their pajamas. We were making cookies with Christmas music blaring. Every light was sparkling around the house, and powdered sugar hung in the air. I went to pull a tray of cookies from the oven when my phone rang. With one hand holding the pan of sugar cookies and the other tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear, I heard my doctor’s voice.
Earlier that day, I had run out to get a scan while the kids were still in school. It was the last step in my two-year process to complete every prescribed cancer treatment. This scan was to provide a new baseline we could use to ensure no changes occurred moving forward. I had completed every treatment, even preventative treatments, because if cancer showed up in my first 35 years, I didn’t want it to show up again in the next 35 years. This evening, my girls and I celebrated their freedom from school and early morning alarms, and inside of me, I celebrated my own freedom from cancer treatments. I was done. Then I heard the voice of my doctor. She said, “You are so young. I am not supposed to give this news so close to the holidays; they teach us not to do such things, but I don’t know what to do. You are so young.” She didn’t need to say another word. The music disappeared, the colors faded, and darkness set in.
The next thing I remember was collapsing on my bedroom floor, darkness all around, weeping, wailing for my life that had just ended. My doctor said I had stage four, terminal cancer.
Over the following weeks, I got up every morning, took my girls to school, and came home to do the work of dying well. I cleaned my closet so my husband wouldn’t have to decide what to do with my clothes. I took all my jewelry to the jeweler to melt it into legacy jewelry for my three girls. I cleaned, decluttered, organized, and did anything I could to prepare my house and my family for my impending death. I stopped engaging in any purposeful part of life because when I thought of myself, death was all I could see.
Ten weeks after my doctor called me with the news of my terminal diagnosis, I woke up one morning and felt stuck to the side of my bed. I sat there, not sure what I could do on this day that would allow me to die better. I sat there and considered all I had done, and I realized my life had become very small, lacking direction or purpose. I thought of my girls and realized that whoever I chose to be in this moment was all my girls would ever remember of me. So, I sat there and took a look at my life.
In my mind, I saw a drawing of a tornado, which looked like one my girls may have drawn with a pencil. A very basic sketch that was wide at the top and had tight twists and turns at the bottom. The bottom of the tornado was slightly smudged out, as if one of their little hands had rubbed it out while drawing the top. I sat considering this tornado sketch and realized I had woken every morning and taken a loop downward. This downward motion had made my life smaller and smaller. Today, I was toward the very bottom of the tornado, and if I stayed in this loop, I would enter the smudged-out spaces and lose my path completely. If I stayed in this mindset, I may never escape. Then, I considered the other side of the tornado. If I moved upward, my life would get brighter and bigger.
At that moment, I had no reason to hope. I had no news of clean scans or of new treatments, but I knew I could not use another day to die well. I had to choose a different path or lose myself completely. I thought of my girls and knew I must leave them a legacy. I did not want them to remember a mother resigned to hopelessness. And so, as I sat on the side of my bed, I made a conscious decision to believe something different. I did not need to use my days to die well while I still had the opportunity to live. So I stood up from the side of my bed, and before I took my first step, my old mental habits kicked in, “But you ARE dying,” my mind cried. “No!” I said, “Today, I will begin to live.”
Though I did not know how to live with a terminal disease, I began doing the only thing I knew to do: find others, listen to their stories, and help them know they are not alone. I began helping others in order to help myself. I found a new purpose and a new perspective. With every person I supported, I found myself a little stronger. I was still living in a loop, but my loop was getting bigger and brighter every day.
Where I am today, November 11, 2025:
Today, I have been living with cancer for nearly ten years. It is a milestone that was unimaginable at my initial diagnosis. I have been in constant treatment for a decade, which means I continue to deal with the grief around the daily changes to my strength and comfort. I have lost my hair multiple times, undergone a dozen surgeries, and received innumerable scans that show progression and some that show stability. I have become terribly sick and then found my strength return once again. Living with cancer constantly requires me to release my expectations, good or bad.
The most significant expectation that had to be released before I could access a purposeful life was the belief that a terminal cancer diagnosis meant my life would soon end. Losing that mindset was the best thing I could have ever done for myself or my family. I nearly wasted precious time waiting to die. Instead, I did not allow my grief to become the only theme in my life’s story. I dug deeper within myself and learned who I was. Then I allowed grief to be woven into the story I was creating. Over these past ten years, I have found hope even in the darkest moments, and because of this, life continues to be an adventure.
By Lauren Huffmaster
