I Believe In Cancer by Maryke Moreau I believe in cancer. I believe in the destruction it can cause to a family and the pain that rips through their hearts. Out of the many dates that we are taught to memorize, like important historical events, birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays, two dates stand out for me. One is a Sunday night in August in 2007, and the other is June 15, 2008. On that Sunday night my family was watching TV and teasing each other just like any other night in the Moreau household. But one phone call changed the mood for the night and changed our lives forever. My grandfather was diagnosed with cancer. There were so many things to figure out. Who was going to get him to his chemo treatments in Boston, how bad was the cancer, how long did he have to live? Meanwhile I was tossed back to Kents Hill for another year of school 40 minutes from home. I wasn’t that far away, but far enough not to know what was going on. As much as I wanted to be home I found that going home for vacations and random weekends was something that became unnaturally hard. I didn’t understand it; it was home. I was supposed to be happy but no one else was. The atmosphere in my house had changed. It felt like everywhere I went in the house, something was sucking the life away from my family and there was nowhere to hide. I hated it. I found it difficult to be around when my parents and my sister would discuss taking him to Boston, how he was doing, the worries that loomed, and the problems that arose that day. Even the simple pronunciation of his name was too much to tolerate. My family was filled with constant pain. I couldn’t look in my dad’s eyes because I couldn’t stand to see a strong man in so much pain from his father’s disease. My grandmother was lost, always worrying about her husband, knowing what he was going through because of the painful memories of her days of chemo and her battle with cancer. She said that it was always supposed to be her who was going to die first, not him. My brother stayed busy with friends, but I knew what he was going through. He began to get irritable with simple things, and I knew he was doing what I was: pushing the problem away and not accepting what was going on. And my older brother was struggling with the separation of living in Georgia, where he is stationed in the service, and not knowing everything that was happening. My mom was the glue trying to hold everything together through her experience of losing her father when I was five years old. The worst thing was seeing my grandfather. He was a relatively healthy man; he loved his food (mostly junk food) and always loved to take the grandkids out for an ice cream. So, needless to say, he had a belly. But every time I saw him, which was once a month or so, his belly shrank, his hair became white and later non-existent, and his hands became almost paralyzed. Even his mind began to go. He would talk about things that weren’t relevant and things we didn’t understand. This killed me. I couldn’t bear seeing him like this and every new visit brought more and more heartache. I remember my prom very well and I know I won’t ever forget it because that was the day that I made my grandfather smile the biggest smile I’ve ever seen him produce. I walked into a hospital room all dressed up and he lit up like never before. At that moment of seeing him smile I knew that he wasn’t going to get better. Soon other things began to change. I didn’t get to see him at home in his favorite chair, but rather in hospitals beds and finally in a hospice. The rides to Boston didn’t happen anymore because the chemo wasn’t helping, and he was dying. During a phone conversation with my mom one day she gave the phone to him and he told me that he was giving up, that he couldn’t fight anymore that he wanted to die happy, and that no one could change his mind. That night I cried myself to sleep. On the last day of school I watched some of my best friends graduate. I wished them luck and told them I’d miss them and then I was driven straight to the hospice where I practically lived for the next couple of weeks. Each day I sat next to him and we talked about things that were going on that day. He would take my hand and he would say “Maryke, you’re my doll. You know that? You’re my little doll.” The amount of work that it took for me not to cry was almost too much to stand. I still can feel the softness of his skin, wrapped around my hand. My sister one day explained to me what exactly was happening to my grandfather and how he was going to die. Not because I asked her, but because I feel that was a way for her to deal with things at the time. She explained to me that his lungs were filling up with fluid and that he was basically drowning to death. Soon I began to realize she was right because, although faint, I began to hear the noise it made with every breath he took. Towards the end of his life it began to get louder and it got so loud and painful to hear that I couldn’t manage to stay in the room anymore, and I found excuses to leave. I called my friends Goff, Maddie, Regan, and others, and I spent most of my time building puzzles. The day before he died I built four puzzles in one day and then glued myself to a chair in his room. On June 15, 2008 at about 3:15 in the morning, I heard and saw my grandfather die. The noise of drowning stopped and it was replaced by silence and a weird sense of peace. The struggle was gone and I felt him finally let go. My sister ran out of the room crying and I walked out, not knowing what to do. The pain was everywhere: in my dad’s eyes, in my grandmother’s eyes, in my sister’s crying, and in my heart. But at the same time there was a feeling of peace that it was over and that he wasn’t suffering anymore. I believe in cancer. I believe in what it does to a family, what it does to the victim, and how it affects a grandchild who loves her grandfather. Cancer is a powerful disease that tears people’s hearts apart, but it can’t break a family; instead it brings them closer together. If you would like to share your story for Profiles of Inspiration please email info@dempseychallenge.org