In mid-May, we got the message. It came quickly. Hardly a warning of what awaited us. It was cancer. A rare form of cancer. No matter how unreal it felt. This was real. It happens to him and to us. No way around it. No one to relieve him. Nothing to wait for. The crisis is total and hit us like a bomb. A month later, the boy is in full chemotherapy treatment. Strong and large doses. The hair was cut before it fell out. The form is gray and unwell while it is on. For those of us around him, it is hard to see how brave he is. He is strong and brave. There is no doubt that he is 21 and immortal. May his courage carry us through. Slowly we get used to the situation. Slowly, the state of emergency is becoming our everyday life. And now we need people around us. We need to know that we are not alone. Everyone who cares about us should know what we stand for. Do not sensationalise passing on the news, but with care the discouraging news must be conveyed. Don’t ask for forecasts! Talk to someone else if you are absolutely confused. Keep it to yourself if you find any answers. Feel free to send us messages, it means a lot that others think of us. The most generous messages are those without too many questions. My kid is still fully himself. He has the same humour, interests, needs and future plans as before the illness. Cancer steals time and energy, but not personality. People express that they are happy to help with what they can. I hope that is true, and have accepted a lot of practical everyday support. We couldn’t have done without it. Not a chance in the dark sea. It took me a while to accept. The fact that people offered several times made everything easier. We are blessed with people who bring food to the door, lend us a car, relieve us with dog-sitting, drive and collect, or drop by the shop. I am endlessly grateful and completely dependent. Cancer takes up time and requires focus. This means that neither he nor I get to participate in everything we want. But keep inviting us. It is different to be invited and decline than not to be invited. And when I finally make it to the pub with my girlfriend, I look forward to talking about everyday things. Serious illness is taboo. When the family is affected by something that causes people to withdraw and become different, then we feel stigma. We need regular! It’s perfectly fine to say you don’t know what to say. Cancer is scary. We think so too. We can talk about other things. But not saying anything, when the crisis is total, is like my child being invisible and insignificant. He is not. On the other side, and every time asking how it’s going, no. It doesn’t work either. Because it goes quite badly when children in the family undergo chemotherapy. At work I can be me. Here I can breathe. I am surrounded by wise, nice colleagues. They gently ask how things are going, now and then. But in the main the job is not infected by the disease. It is a sanctuary. Please don’t show me care by thinking I can’t do my job. I speak up. My manager is watching. When all this is over, we’ll be back to normal. One way or another. Then care, assistance, inclusion, generosity, support and the usual have had everything to say. We look forward to it as usual! To a completely normal life. Graffiti on the brick wall at the entrance to Radiumhospitalet. Photo: Private Published 17.08.2024, at 16.57
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My child is sick – Statement
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