When people hear the word cancer, their minds usually go straight to treatment.
Chemotherapy. Radiation. Surgery. Appointments. Medications. Scans.
Those are the pieces we can see.
But cancer changes so many things that never appear on a medical chart.
It changes mornings.
It changes family dinners.
It changes the way you answer the phone when you are waiting for test results.
It changes the meaning of a quiet drive home.
It changes calendars, conversations, finances, relationships, routines and sometimes the way you look at the future altogether.
I know this because cancer became part of my family’s story.
My dad, Glen, had cancer, and eventually we lost him to it. There are so many pieces of that experience I will probably carry with me forever.
And one thing I have learned is that cancer does not only happen inside a hospital room.
It follows people home.
It sits at the kitchen table.
It rides along on the drive to treatment.
It becomes part of birthdays, holidays and ordinary Tuesday afternoons.
The Waiting
There is so much waiting involved with cancer.
Waiting for appointments.
Waiting for bloodwork.
Waiting for scans.
Waiting for doctors.
Waiting for treatment to begin.
Waiting to find out whether treatment worked.
Sometimes the waiting feels almost as heavy as the answers themselves.
You can be sitting in a perfectly ordinary room while your entire future feels like it is hanging somewhere in the space between we don’t know yet and we’ll call you when we have the results.
That is something people outside of cancer do not always see.
The Caregivers Carry It Too
Cancer affects the person receiving the diagnosis, but it also changes life for the people who love them.
Partners become caregivers.
Children become helpers.
Parents worry about their adult children.
Friends start driving to appointments, delivering meals and checking their phones more often.
Families learn medical terminology they never expected to know.
They rearrange work schedules.
They organize medications.
They remember appointment dates.
And sometimes they try to stay strong while quietly being terrified themselves.
Caregivers deserve comfort too.
They deserve someone asking, How are you doing?
Not just, How is the patient doing?
Ordinary Things Become Important
Something else cancer taught me is how valuable ordinary things really are.
A warm blanket.
A cup of tea.
A comfortable pair of socks.
A conversation in the car.
Someone sitting beside you without needing to say anything.
A handwritten note.
A favourite song.
A photograph.
A normal afternoon where nobody talks about cancer for an hour.
These things can sound so small.
Until you are going through something that makes normal life feel incredibly precious.
That understanding is one of the reasons I started the Glen Adnam Cancer Comfort Basket Foundation.
Our comfort baskets cannot change someone’s diagnosis.
They cannot take away fear.
They cannot make treatment disappear.
But they can provide a little bit of comfort during an incredibly difficult chapter.
Inside our baskets are practical and comforting items such as blankets, fuzzy socks, journals, crossword books, tea, unscented lotion, lip balm, toothbrushes, mouth care items, hand sanitizer and other thoughtful pieces.
Each item is simple.
But together they carry a much bigger message:
You are being thought about.
Your experience matters.
You do not have to walk through this feeling completely alone.
What I Wish More People Knew
You do not need the perfect words when someone has cancer.
Sometimes people become afraid of saying the wrong thing, so they say nothing at all.
But you do not need to fix the situation.
You probably cannot.
You can simply show up.
Send the message.
Drop off the coffee.
Offer the ride.
Remember the appointment.
Ask the caregiver how they are doing.
Sit beside someone.
Talk about completely normal things when they need a break from talking about cancer.
And keep checking in after the first few weeks.
Cancer journeys can be long.
Support should not disappear simply because the diagnosis is no longer new.
Turning Loss Into Something That Helps Someone Else
Losing my dad changed me.
There are pieces of grief that never really disappear.
There are still songs, memories, photographs and ordinary moments that can bring everything rushing back.
But creating this foundation has given that grief somewhere meaningful to go.
Every basket we complete carries a little piece of my dad’s legacy with it.
What began because our family experienced something incredibly painful has grown into something that can now bring comfort to other families throughout Saskatchewan.
And we are only beginning.
My hope is that one day, someone sitting in an oncology unit opens one of our bags, pulls out a soft blanket or journal, and feels even slightly less alone.
Maybe they will never know who packed it.
Maybe we will never know their story.
That is okay.
Because kindness does not always need to be witnessed to matter.
Sometimes the smallest acts of comfort become the things people remember most.
And sometimes something created from loss can become a reminder that there is still so much goodness left to give.
In memory of Glen Adnam, and for every person and family walking through cancer.
To learn more about the Glen Adnam Cancer Comfort Basket Foundation, donate, volunteer, sponsor a comfort basket or get involved, visit glenadnamfoundation.ca.
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