Living with the fallout of cancer
One in two of us will be diagnosed with a cancer. So there is a chance if you are reading this, at some point in your lifetime you could get cancer. Early screening and improved diagnosis, along with advances in medical science, means that more people are surviving than before. But cancer is not like any other illness. Cancer changes everything … an oncologist used the term “biographical disruption” to describe how life shattering a cancer diagnosis is not just for the patient but family members too. Beliefs that life is fair, secure and predictable are rocked to the core. Everything that you knew and everything that you thought you knew about the future shaken up including daily routines, ability to work, ability to drive, travel, swim, talk, walk, plan for the future. Thoughts of mortality and death, along with the impermanence of life itself, create a weird snow dome or bubble like existence that puts you into a different, alternative reality to everyone else.
When my partner was diagnosed with brain cancer on 14th October 2025, life divided itself into before and after. The cancer diagnosis came as a shock as he was fit and healthy. We had ran a half marathon together just months before. How could he possibly have cancer? Where did it come from? Why him? How long was he living with it unaware? Cancer makes you feel like you cannot trust your body as there is an ever present invisible danger and fear lurking.
As a psychotherapist I was well versed in supporting others through crisis, grief and uncertainty, I was less prepared for what it would feel like to live inside it. Cancer disrupts every single aspect of life. A brain cancer diagnosis in particular brings layers of complexity: cognitive changes, personality shifts, memory loss, fatigue alongside the ever present fear of what might come next. As the brain is the control centre of the whole body – literally every single function can be effected by the tumour and necrosis. Cancer can cause invisible changes to the body, especially if part of the treatment is that some of the body has been removed … a stoma, feeding tube, artificial voice box. Some changes permanently alter how the body functions. Side effects of the swelling or medication or neuropathy can including brain fog, along with muscle loss, aches and pains which continue long after the treatment stops. My partners eyesight has been effected which means he has lost confidence when out walking in public. The not knowing how things would be from one hour to the next let alone from one day to the next was the hardest part. Recovery is not linear. I started to live on a permanent high alert, attuned to every breath, movement and change.
I found myself navigating multiple roles at once caregiver, advocate, emotional anchor and quiet witness to loss. Loss of certainty. Loss of future plans. Lots of of the shared assumptions we once held about time, health and the future. These losses are often invisible to the outside world yet deeply felt.
One of the most surprising aspects was how isolating it could feel. I was given leaflets and booklets by Macmillian and the Brain Tumour Charity packed full of information and advice, but I felt it lacked the reality of what it’s really like. It’s a bit like when you have your first baby and read every book and blog going and attend the classes and courses, but none of it really prepares you for the reality of being a first-time parent. It is a nightmare rollercoaster with more twists, turns, ups and downs. Yes I have developed whiplash from the knocks and bumps along the way!
Friends and family were kind but I worried about burdening them with too much of the relentless gory details. In the beginning the practical help really made a difference – parents and friends made dinners and kept us fed, grandad dropped and collected the kids from school and reminded us of what day to put the bins out. We got a lot of holistic recommendations about what supplements to take or smoothies to drink, which crystals to wear and meditations to listen to - but when you are literally hanging in the balance of survival it is harder to engage with this stuff.
For the first three months I became quite manic in my mind, with thoughts racing faster than I could keep up. I had to keep myself super busy as doing nothing meant that the feelings flooded in and overwhelmed me, often resulting in my crying at the drop of a hat. I felt I had to say strong, manage logistics and keep things moving. There was little space to acknowledge my own fear, exhaustion, resentment and grief.
My body was unable to hide what my brain tried to. I stopped sleeping, I cried at the drop of a hat, I developed hives and irritable bowel syndrome, I did everything at a frantic pace. I was unable to pause or slow down as the thoughts would intrude. My nervous system remained on higher alert. There was always scan dates, medical appointments, social services calls, medication changes, oncology visits, holistic treatments – It was a full time job just managing the diary.
Living with the fallout of cancer means learning how to hold uncertainty without being consumed by it. We literally had to take it day by day, trying to look ahead was petrifying and pointless. You try and savour the little moments but it is impossible to have gratitude, appreciation and enjoy when you are in survival mode. It was a balancing act between being positive but allowing space for all the big overwhelming feelings.
The experience has profoundly shaped my work as a psychotherapist. Whilst professional training teaches us how to hold space, lived experience of cancer really catapults you into a deeper understanding of what it means to sit with uncertainty, fear and anticipatory grief. It has reinforced the importance of creating spaces where carers and partners can speak honestly without guilt, without minimising and without the pressure to be resilient all the time.
Cancer may begin with a diagnosis but it’s psychological impact extends far beyond treatment timelines. For partners and carers support is not a luxury it is essential. Healing does not mean returning to who you were before often it means learning how to live meaningfully in a life that has been irrevocably changed. I remember hoping my partner would discover a zest for whatever life he had left, but this was not always the case. Focusing just on the feelings of gratitude and appreciation of being alive can deny other feelings that are useful to explore – sadness, fear, loss, resentment – they are just as valid part of the experience.
If this resonates with you, know that you are not alone and that your experience matters. Please do get in touch if you would like support in trying to process how to live with the fallout of cancer.