Whenever I talk to a family about brain cancer, I tell them they can ask me anything. Normally they ask me sensitive questions about the end of life or navigating treatment. But sometimes, tougher questions come out. The toughest one is “how do you go on without your son?” There are many answers to this question. First, would be that my other family members need me. But second would be that my son would want me to be there for these people. It doesn’t make it any less bone-crushingly sad. On the contrary, walking through hell with these families is horrific and hard. It’s been six years since we heard the words brain cancer, a little more than four since David was taken from us. And while many point to the successes of the foundation and the progress in research that we’ve helped with, I can’t see that. All I see is the next person in treatment with no clear treatment path. I’ve been a fairly selfish person for most of my life but now all I see is other people’s need. David always had that sight so maybe he passed some of it along.
Right now, somewhere a family is agonizing over their loved one’s last breaths. Right now, somewhere a family is hearing that the diagnosis is terminal. I know there will always be freak accidents that steal our loved ones away, but cancer isn’t like that. It’s a disease that we are on the verge of finding cures for, but each day that passes steals away another life.
People struggle with the meaning of life, but I know that the thing that gives my life purpose is making the way easier for others. That used to be through simple things like doing my job well or making lunch for a teacher at school. Now it is by helping push scientific research forward. And I can do that even though I made a C in Mrs. Coley’s Chemistry class. And you can do it, no matter what your background is. We all have power. We all have a voice. Let’s use it to end cancer now. Right now.