Week 144: Grief Comes in Waves: Coping with Family Cancer and Child Loss

 

Grief comes in waves. 

Some weeks, the tide feels relentless, crashing one after another before I can catch my breath. If you’re navigating grief—whether from losing a child, caring for a loved one with cancer, or both—know that you are not alone.

Facing a Parent’s Cancer Diagnosis

This week, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer for the third time. She hasn’t even finished the five-year course of tamoxifen from her last round—the one that ended with her mastectomy. We don’t yet know what this new diagnosis will mean, but the word cancer alone is enough to pull me under.

Waves of Memory and Loss

The first wave is memory. I can’t help but flash back to my father’s decline in 2023: prostate cancer layered on top of brain aneurysms that left him blind, adding to a long list of ailments he had carried for years. His decline came after his own father—my grandfather—passed, whose death from the same cancer was swift and peaceful. Together, these losses cast a shadow I’m still learning to navigate.

Then comes another wave, pulling me farther out: the memory of my grandmother, who died of pancreatic cancer decades ago at only fifty-nine. And then the hardest wave of all: my daughter. Knowing I’ll be beside my mom at her appointments, helping make decisions, takes me straight back to that other hospital room, that other goodbye I never wanted to face.

The Physical and Emotional Weight of Grief

My body feels these waves before my mind can even name them. The day after the diagnosis, I came home from work, sat down to a quiet dinner I barely tasted, and went straight to bed. I was beyond exhausted—emptied out. But the next morning, after rest, I rose again: a little steadier, a little stronger.

To cope with the waves of grief, I return to small rituals that steady me: journaling my thoughts, sipping a warm cup of tea, or taking a short walk outside. Sometimes these moments feel insignificant, but they anchor me, offering a pause to breathe and simply exist in the present. I often turn to small daily practices—like the journaling, aura spray and oracle cards along with my daughter's blanket in [my grief toolkit - here]—to help steady myself when the waves of loss feel overwhelming.

The Difference Support Makes

The support from friends I’ve shared this with has been both lovely and surprising. Messages have come quickly, offers to help have been steady, and I’ve felt held in ways I didn’t expect.

I don’t remember this much support when my daughter passed. That grief seemed to silence people. Some didn’t know what to say, so they said nothing. Others pulled away, afraid of saying the wrong thing or being too close to a pain they couldn’t imagine. Losing a child felt like a loss too big for most people to enter into with me.

This time, though, the response is different. Cancer is something many people can name, something they’ve brushed up against in their own families. It feels more familiar, and maybe that makes it easier for them to offer compassion. I am grateful for it—even while I notice the contrast, even while I carry the memory of what it was like to grieve without that same circle of support.

Life Keeps Moving

Meanwhile, life keeps rushing forward like its own current. My daughter just received a job offer in another state, and I had been planning to move with her for that first big step. Those plans are now on hold until I know what my mom will need. At the same time, I’m helping my son move to Southern California to begin graduate school.

It’s all at once: past, present, future—colliding like waves that don’t let up. Some days I feel pulled under. Other days, I can catch my breath. What helps me rise is small but steady: rest, showing up for the next day, trusting that even when the water is rough, the waves eventually recede.

Holding Uncertainty While Embracing the Present

We don’t know yet what the future holds for my mother. Right now, she is alive, here, facing what comes one step at a time. And that, too, is part of living with grief: holding uncertainty while still holding on to the present.

I can rest. I can rise. And somehow, I will keep moving with them.

If you’re in your own wave right now, I hope you remember: it’s okay to let the tide knock you down. It’s okay to rest until you rise again. What small ritual or moment has helped you rise? Share your story in the comments—sometimes our shared experiences are the gentlest lifeline.