There’s so much focus on getting through treatment.
Getting to the hospital. Checking in. Sitting in the chair. Getting through another appointment, another needle, another round.
But there’s a part we don’t talk about nearly enough.
The drive home.
The appointment might be over, but cancer doesn’t stay behind at the hospital doors.
Sometimes the drive home is quiet.
Sometimes you’re exhausted. Sometimes you’re nauseous. Sometimes your mind is racing with everything the doctor said. Sometimes the person sitting beside you doesn’t know what to say, because there really aren’t words big enough for what you’re both carrying.
And sometimes you just want to get home.
To your own couch.
Your own blanket.
Your own bed.
To somewhere that doesn’t smell like a hospital.
When my dad was going through cancer, I learned that so much of this journey happens in these little moments that most people never see.
Cancer isn’t only the treatments, scans and appointments.
It’s the drive there.
It’s the waiting room.
It’s the drive home.
It’s the caregiver quietly wondering what they can possibly do to make things a little easier.
It’s getting home after an exhausting day and still having cancer sitting there with you.
That is one of the reasons the Glen Adnam Cancer Comfort Basket Foundation means so much to me.
We can’t change a diagnosis.
We can’t make treatment disappear.
And we certainly can’t promise that tomorrow will be easier.
But maybe we can make that drive home—and the hours that follow—a little more comfortable.
Maybe there’s a soft pair of socks waiting in that basket.
A blanket to curl up underneath.
Lip balm for dry lips.
A journal for the thoughts you don’t know how to say out loud.
A puzzle book when you desperately need your brain to focus on something other than cancer.
Something small that reminds you:
Someone thought about you.
Someone packed this basket knowing that today might be hard.
Someone wanted you to have a little bit of comfort when you got home.
That’s what these baskets have always been about.
Not fixing cancer.
Not pretending everything is okay.
Just showing up in one small way and saying,
We see you. We’re thinking about you. And you don’t have to carry every part of this alone.
Because sometimes comfort isn’t something huge.
Sometimes it’s sitting in the passenger seat on the drive home with a blanket across your lap, knowing somebody cared enough to put it there.
And sometimes, on the hardest days, that little bit of comfort matters more than we realize.
In memory of Glen Adnam, and for every person making that drive home. 🤎
— Glen Adnam Cancer Comfort Basket Foundation
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