Rather than fight it, I’m learning to listen to the sound of silence

There is a specific kind of silence that occurs only when there is bad news. This type of silence isn’t peaceful or calm. It is heavy and thick. It’s the kind of quietness that settles inside a room once the doctor has departed, after you’ve finished that phone call, or when the tears have subsided. It’s the type that you can feel deep within your heart and bones.

Ever since my mum’s myeloma diagnosis, my life has become saturated. It is now jam-packed with the never-ending noise of updates on medical advances in cancer, conflicting advice from doctors and other medical experts, beeping from scanners and other machines, and the frantic buzz of my thoughts. Amid all of the noise, chaos, repetitive routines, and administrative work, I’ve come to intimately know this type of quietness. I’ve heard other sounds before, but I feel like this type of silence is the loudest of them all.

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The space between words

This used to terrify me. I’d desperately and compulsively try to fill it in by any means. I resorted to watching a lot of TV, reciting platitudes, engaging in frantic research on medical advances in cancer, and just about anything that was capable of drowning away the terrifying truth that the quietness persisted. I believed I’d be completely consumed by the grief of my mum’s condition if I dared to stop talking, moving, or doing whatever I was doing as her caregiver.

I was completely wrong.

I’ve since discovered that you cannot outrun the silence. On this journey as a caregiver, that quietness has become my constant companion. When I’m driving home from the hospital, it’s there in the passenger seat. When it’s 3 a.m. and the house is dark and still, the quietness is there. The silence is the question that remains unspoken, lingering between my mum and me as we ponder the question, “What is the next thing that is supposed to happen?”

Slowly, I am learning how not to struggle, resist, or engage in fights with this silence. Instead, I am learning to sit in the quietness and deliberately, yet consciously, avoid rushing to fill it with frantic activity or false hope. By surrendering to it, I’ve discovered something strange: The quietness is not empty.

It is full of all the things we are too scared to say out loud. It holds my mum’s courage, along with the love I have for her — so fierce and deep that there aren’t enough words to describe it. It holds the stubborn resilience that my mum and I share.

When I stop trying to fill the silence, I can finally hear what it’s been trying to tell me: that my mum and I are still here, together, breathing through all the invisible labor, pain, guilt, anger, and challenges that come with a rare cancer like myeloma. That is enough.

The unspoken understanding

My mum and I have developed a new language that exists almost entirely in these quiet spaces. It’s the pressure of her hand gently squeezing mine when words fail to express what we are thinking. It’s the way I adjust her blanket without her asking me to do so. It’s a look across the room that says, “I know. I’m scared, too.”

The world is loud with so many opinions, advice, and the never-ending pressure to remain positive. But here, in our quietness, we don’t need any of that. Here, we can just be ourselves — two people facing an immense situation, saying everything that needs to be said without uttering a word.

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.