When words fail: The silence that falls after a myeloma diagnosis
How love manifested in the quiet moments after my mum was diagnosed
I still remember what happened in 2022 after my mother received her myeloma diagnosis. I was sitting by her side in the hospital room. My grip on her hand might have been a little too tight, but she didn’t seem to mind. We both sat there in silence and stared at the wall as if it were going to burst open and hand us an instruction manual.
“Incurable,” “malignant,” and “treatment plan” were some of the words the oncologist used that day. They hung in the air like rotten fruit that you can’t wait to cut off of a tree. But even if I could cut them off, would that restore my mother’s health to when she didn’t have myeloma?
My mum and I sat there in silence for a long time. Several minutes? An hour, maybe, or more? Time wasn’t relevant at all. Neither of us said anything.
The silence wasn’t empty, nor was it peaceful. It was loud, yet everything we wanted to say remained unsaid.
The weight of unspoken fears
In films, a cancer diagnosis is the moment when someone whispers with tears in their eyes, “Everything is going to be all right.”
What about in real life? My mum and I just sat there.
I didn’t say everything was going to be all right, because I didn’t know. And she didn’t ask me if she would survive the cancer, because she was scared of what my answer might be.
Our silence in that moment was not evidence that we lacked love; it was proof that there was too much of it.
Since then, I have discovered that this feeling is quite common, even among medical professionals. A 2021 narrative review published in the Annals of Palliative Medicine noted, “In one large study of cancer patients on palliative chemotherapy, only 39% of patients reported that prognosis was discussed by medical oncologists. Other studies found that physicians never discussed prognosis with families more than 50% of the time.”
Perhaps the reason for this lack of discussion is not denial, but self-preservation. Words make things real. Sometimes reality is too sharp to grasp all at once.
The words that came later
Our silence didn’t last forever. It broke down in two key moments:
1. Inside the car, when my mother turned to me and apologized, saying that she didn’t mean to do this to me. Something inside me snapped, and without thinking, I responded, “Don’t you dare apologize to me.” As I watched her recoil at my outburst, I felt weak, distraught, and angry at myself. I then hugged the steering wheel and cried my heart out.
2. At 3 a.m., when she confessed to me that she was afraid. By then, I had stopped replying with empty optimism. I just said, “So am I.”
Those exchanges between my mum and me were small and messy. However, they accomplished more than any impressive speech could. They allowed us to call out our fear by its name without it drowning us. For me, these moments exemplified how we shared our vulnerability. They were important in helping me deal with caregiver guilt and the unspoken weight of our journey.
If you’re sitting in a similar silence at this moment, I want you to know this: You don’t have to fill the quiet with platitudes. You don’t have to be courageous. Sometimes the most authentic thing you can do is to just be there, without uttering a single word. Maybe the correct words will come, or maybe they won’t. Either way, your presence is enough.
Because love doesn’t always manifest in the things we say. Sometimes it shows up in the silence we’re willing to share.
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.
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