Learning to enjoy each good day, knowing it doesn’t promise tomorrow

One day last month, my mum laughed out loud at a silly joke on the comedy show she was watching on TV. The sound filled the room like sunlight after weeks of rain. She sat up a little straighter, her eyes bright, and asked for a second cup of tea.

For a few precious hours, the house didn’t feel like the sickroom I was used to. It felt lighter.

I permitted myself to smile with her. Even though she’s battling a rare cancer known as myeloma, she still has a sense of humor. I wasn’t surprised when I found myself planning a short walk to the garden the next day.

Then night came.

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Around 2 a.m., I woke to the familiar creak of her bed. Her breathing had changed again — shallow, careful, the way it does when pain returns quietly.

At that moment, the good day felt like a trick. My mind raced ahead to blood tests, possible dose changes, the next scan, perhaps another diagnosis.

I lay there telling myself not to ruin the memory, but the fear was already whispering inside my head: “Don’t get used to this.”

Adjusting my approach to good days

I’ve learned that when you are caregiving for a rare cancer patient, you’re expected to have hope. However, such hope comes in uneven rhythms.

One day, her steps are steadier, and I feel my shoulders drop. The next day, a small fever spikes, and my stomach tightens.

The good days are real — I know this now — but they do not promise tomorrow. Betting everything on them leaves me crushed and sometimes angry when the rhythm suddenly shifts without warning. However, refusing to trust them at all turns every moment into waiting for the other shoe to drop.

So I’m practicing in a gentler way.

I let myself enjoy the laughter, the extra cup of tea, the warm weight of her hand in mine. I deliberately acknowledge the grace of another successful day.

I also take note of the details — the way light touches her cheek, the soft clink of the teaspoon — and I store them in my mind like small treasures. At the same time, I keep one quiet corner of my heart ready, not in panic, but in acceptance.

The rhythm is uneven. That is the truth.

But the good days are still good. They belong to us, too.

And for as long as they last, I’m learning to dance with them — carefully, gratefully, without holding my breath.

Note: Rare Cancer News is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Rare Cancer News or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to rare cancer.