When Love Becomes the Strength We Lean On Daily
There are some memories that do not fade with time. They soften around the edges, perhaps, but they stay close. They return quietly, often when life places someone else’s story in front of us and asks us to remember what it felt like to stand beside someone we loved while they were fighting for more time.
For me, that memory reaches back to 2003.
I was living in New Zealand then, surrounded by a small circle of friends who became more like family. One of them was walking through cancer, although “walking” feels too gentle a word for what it really was. Cancer does not simply arrive and sit politely in the corner. It rearranges rooms. It changes conversations. It makes ordinary days feel fragile and sacred all at once.
She had once been given only six months to live. Somehow, through grit, grace, stubbornness, and the kind of spirit medicine cannot measure, she lived for more than six years.
During that time, she and her partner travelled to Indonesia to fulfil one of her deepest dreams: to help build a school. Even now, I think about that. The body was failing, but the heart was still reaching outward. Still creating. Still giving something beautiful to the world, because humans are ridiculous like that. We keep planting gardens even when the storm clouds are already overhead.
When they returned to New Zealand, her cancer had spread. Life became smaller in some ways, measured by appointments, rest, pain, meals, medication, and the invisible weight carried by the person doing most of the caring. Her partner carried so much of it with quiet devotion. The rest of us stepped in where we could. We cooked. We visited. We offered respite. We tried to bring light into rooms where everyone knew darkness was waiting nearby.
And still, there was laughter.
That is the part people sometimes forget when they speak about illness. They remember the fear, the grief, the exhaustion. All of that is true. But there can also be absurd jokes in the middle of heartbreak. There can be teasing, stories, cups of tea, and moments where everyone laughs harder than expected because, frankly, crying all the time is not sustainable for the human nervous system.
She never lost her humour. Even near the end, she had a way of making us laugh, as though she was reminding us that she was still here. Not just a patient. Not just a diagnosis. Still fully herself.
As her condition worsened, she wanted to visit each of her friends one last time. Her partner took her from home to home, helping her say the goodbyes none of us wanted to admit were goodbyes. Watching that kind of love up close changes you. It teaches you that caregiving is not only practical. It is emotional labour, physical exhaustion, devotion, fear, and courage braided together into one long day after another.
One afternoon, while her partner was away, we spoke quietly. She thanked me for being there. For helping. For bringing humour when things felt heavy. I remember feeling both grateful and helpless, because there is something painfully small about the things we can offer someone who is dying. A joke. A hand. A meal. A few hours of company.
And yet, those small things matter.
They matter more than we know.
Supporting someone through cancer is not about having the perfect words. Most of the time, there are none. It is about showing up anyway. It is about sitting in the discomfort. It is about giving the caregiver a moment to breathe. It is about remembering that the person in front of you is still a whole human being, not a tragedy to be managed.
That experience taught me that love does not always arrive as grand gestures. Sometimes it looks like making tea. Sometimes it sounds like laughter in a tired room. Sometimes it is simply staying when everything inside you wants to run from the pain of what is happening.
For anyone supporting a loved one through cancer, know this: you do not have to be perfect. You do not have to fix what cannot be fixed. Your presence matters. Your gentleness matters. Your willingness to keep showing up, even awkwardly, even imperfectly, even with your own heart breaking, may become one of the greatest gifts you ever give.
And for those fighting their own battle, may you be surrounded by people who see all of you. Not just the illness. Not just the fear. But your humour, your dreams, your stubborn hope, and the beautiful, complicated, irreplaceable person you still are.