2014 | Mixed Emotions, Unanswered Questions, and the Day a Diagnosis Changed the Way I Understood Uncertainty

There are days when I sit in front of my computer with so many things to write about that I cannot decide which thought deserves the first sentence. And then there are days when I stare at the same blank page, watching the cursor blink as though it is impatiently waiting for an explanation I do not know how to give. Today belongs to the second category. I have opened this page several times, attempted to arrange my thoughts, and discovered that whatever I intended to write has apparently disappeared without leaving a forwarding address. Even my vocabulary seems to have developed an inconvenient habit of abandoning me when I need it most. I suppose words are like certain people: wonderfully available during ordinary circumstances, but remarkably difficult to find when something serious happens.

I wish I were writing about something amusing. Perhaps another exhausting hospital shift, a ridiculous conversation with my friends, or one of those ordinary inconveniences that becomes entertaining after enough time has passed. I would happily complain about my work schedule, describe another encounter with Mr Time Management, or discuss the extraordinary relationship between nurses and their neglected sleeping hours. Those are familiar subjects. I know how to laugh at them, even when they have tested my patience. But lately, life has introduced something that I cannot quite turn into a joke, and for once, I am struggling to find a comfortable place for my thoughts.

My aunt has been diagnosed with stage III colon cancer.

Even writing those words feels strange. I have heard the word cancer countless times before, particularly during nursing school and hospital duty. I have studied illnesses, encountered medical terminology, and learned that diagnosis and treatment involve complicated decisions requiring careful assessment. As a nurse, I understand that serious conditions are part of the realities healthcare professionals encounter. But I am discovering that recognising a medical term is very different from hearing it spoken in connection with someone you love. In a textbook, a diagnosis occupies a paragraph. In a hospital, it becomes part of a clinical discussion. At home, when it concerns your own family, it can make an ordinary afternoon feel entirely unfamiliar.

I cannot even remember what I had originally planned to write before learning the news. I know I had thoughts I wanted to share, little observations about life that usually find their way into this blog. But after hearing about my aunt’s condition, those subjects suddenly seemed to move somewhere beyond my attention. It was as though my mind had cleared an entire desk to make room for one piece of information, only to discover that I had no idea what to do with it.

Stage III.

Colon cancer.

My aunt.

Three expressions that seem perfectly understandable individually, yet become almost impossible to accept when placed together.

I have always found it interesting how quickly our minds attempt to negotiate with unpleasant information. We hear something frightening, and before we have properly understood it, we begin searching for alternative explanations. Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding. Perhaps another examination will reveal something different. Perhaps the diagnosis is not as serious as it sounds. We do not necessarily say these things aloud, but somewhere inside us, a conversation begins between what we have been told and what we desperately wish were true.

I think that is where I am now.

Denial, perhaps. Or disbelief. Or that confusing space between understanding the words and accepting that they belong to our lives. I know what the diagnosis means medically, at least in general terms, yet a part of me continues behaving as though the information might somehow change if I examine it from another angle. I keep returning to the same thoughts, asking questions for which I do not yet have answers, and wondering how something so serious could become part of our family so unexpectedly.

What troubles me is that I am already finding the news difficult to process, and I am not even the person who received the diagnosis.

What must my aunt be feeling?

I think about that question repeatedly. I wonder what went through her mind when the doctor explained the results, what questions she wanted to ask, and which concerns followed her home afterwards. I wonder whether she feels frightened, confused, angry, or simply exhausted by the sudden uncertainty. Perhaps she is experiencing emotions that are difficult to explain even to the people closest to her. I cannot presume to know exactly what she is thinking, and I do not want to make her diagnosis entirely about my own reaction. But I care about her, and knowing that someone I love is facing a serious illness has left me feeling terribly unsettled.

There is something especially difficult about watching uncertainty enter a family. Until recently, our worries may have involved work, ordinary responsibilities, finances, or the countless little complications that accompany everyday life. We might have complained about schedules, disagreed about unimportant things, and assumed that tomorrow would resemble yesterday closely enough to make our plans. Then one medical conversation changes the subjects we discuss, the questions we ask, and the things we begin worrying about when the house becomes quiet.

Suddenly, the future demands explanations that nobody can provide with certainty.

I keep thinking about the questions that immediately followed the diagnosis. What happens next? What treatment will be recommended? How will my aunt manage everything she may need to undergo? How can we support her without making her feel as though every conversation must revolve around her illness? And perhaps the most difficult question of all: how do we remain hopeful while accepting that we cannot control the outcome?

I wish I knew how to answer that last one.

During nursing school, we learned about the importance of providing holistic care. We were reminded that patients are not simply collections of symptoms, diagnoses, and laboratory results. They have emotional, psychological, social, and spiritual needs that deserve consideration alongside their physical condition. I understood the principle, and I have tried to apply it during my clinical practice. But having someone in my family face a serious diagnosis has made the meaning of holistic care feel much more personal.

There is an entire human experience surrounding an illness that cannot be captured by its medical name.

A diagnosis may require investigations, treatment planning, and consultation with specialists, but the person receiving it must also continue navigating ordinary life. There are relationships, responsibilities, emotions, and personal concerns that remain important even when medical appointments begin occupying the calendar. My aunt is still the person we know and love. Her diagnosis is significant, but it does not erase everything else about her.

I hope I never forget that.

As a nurse, I am accustomed to thinking about what can be assessed, monitored, and addressed clinically. I appreciate the importance of professional knowledge, and I know that accurate information matters when discussing a serious condition. Yet as a niece, my first reaction has been much less organised. I have questions, fears, and moments when my emotions seem determined to ignore the calm reasoning I try to apply at work.

Perhaps this is what happens when professional knowledge and personal attachment occupy the same room.

The nurse in me wants to understand the diagnosis, ask about the treatment plan, and consider what information might be useful. The niece in me wants to hear that my aunt will be all right. The nurse knows that different people with the same broad stage of cancer can have different clinical circumstances and treatment options. The niece wishes somebody could remove every uncertainty from the situation and hand our family a reassuring answer.

Unfortunately, medicine does not work according to the preferences of worried relatives.

We were also told that there may be a hereditary component to the illness, and that information has introduced another collection of concerns. Hearing the word hereditary can make a diagnosis feel even more frightening because it raises questions about other members of the family. I have been trying to remind myself that a family history of cancer does not mean everyone in the family will develop the disease. Some colorectal cancers are associated with inherited conditions, while many occur without a known inherited cause. Understanding whether there is an increased familial risk requires proper medical assessment rather than assumptions based upon a single diagnosis.

Still, knowing that does not automatically prevent me from worrying.

Sometimes the mind is remarkably skilled at turning a possibility into an entire collection of imaginary scenarios. We hear something uncertain, and suddenly we are thinking several years into the future, inventing questions that have not yet become relevant and frightening ourselves with outcomes nobody has predicted. I realise how unhelpful that can be, but it is difficult to stop when the subject involves people we love.

I suppose fear rarely waits until we have gathered all the facts.

There is a part of me that wants to ask why this had to happen. Why my aunt? Why now? Why must someone we love face something so frightening? I know these are not particularly useful questions from a medical perspective, and I recognise that illness does not select people according to whether their families are prepared. Yet the questions remain, appearing in my thoughts whenever I try to concentrate on something else.

Perhaps what I am really asking is why life can change so suddenly.

I have spent the past several months learning more about the responsibilities of nursing. Some shifts have been exhausting, and I have written about how demanding hospital work can become. I have complained about insufficient sleep, complicated schedules, and the remarkable talent of medication rounds for consuming an entire afternoon. At the time, those frustrations felt significant. They still matter, of course, particularly because professional responsibilities require proper attention. But lately, I have found myself looking at them differently.

I would happily exchange one of my ordinary complaints for the peace of mind I had before hearing this news.

It is strange how we can become so occupied with everyday inconveniences that we scarcely notice the comfort of having nothing particularly frightening to worry about. We complain about waking up early, travelling to work, or being too busy to enjoy our hobbies. We make plans for the next week and assume that the people we love will continue being part of those plans in familiar ways. We rarely stop to appreciate the absence of a serious problem because there is nothing obvious to remind us that such peace is valuable.

Then something happens, and we begin longing for the ordinary days we had previously found so tiring.

I do not mean that we should spend our lives anticipating terrible news. That would make it difficult to enjoy anything. But I am beginning to realise how much of everyday happiness depends upon circumstances we cannot entirely control. Good health, family relationships, and the reassurance of knowing our loved ones are well can feel so familiar that we forget to recognise their importance.

Perhaps I have been taking some of those things for granted.

I am trying not to let that thought become another reason to blame myself. We cannot live every ordinary day with the intensity of someone who already knows what difficulty tomorrow will bring. We have work to do, responsibilities to manage, and little worries that naturally occupy our attention. But experiences like this can change our perspective, encouraging us to become more considerate about the time and attention we give the people who matter to us.

I think that is one thing I want to carry forward from this moment, whatever happens next.

I want to become more attentive to my family, more willing to listen when someone needs to talk, and less inclined to assume that I already understand another person’s circumstances. I also want to remember that supporting someone through illness does not require me to provide an impressive speech every time we meet. Sometimes there may be practical things to organise, questions that need clarification, or ordinary moments when the person simply wants to discuss something unrelated to their medical condition.

I hope I can offer that kind of support to my aunt.

I do not want her to feel that every conversation must become a discussion about cancer. She deserves to remain herself, with all the ordinary interests, preferences, and relationships that existed before the diagnosis. If she wants to talk about her fears, I hope she feels comfortable doing so. If she wants to discuss ordinary matters, I hope we can enjoy those conversations without feeling that we are avoiding something important.

Perhaps the challenge is learning to follow her needs rather than our own anxiety.

As family members, we may feel compelled to ask questions, seek reassurance, and look for signs that everything is improving. Those concerns come from love, but I imagine they can also become exhausting for someone who is already dealing with medical appointments and uncertainty. I hope we remember to give her space to express what she wants and to respect her preferences whenever decisions concern her care.

I am learning that love does not give us ownership over another person’s experience.

It gives us a reason to care, to remain available, and to offer support without assuming that we know exactly how the person should feel.

My faith has been particularly important to me during these days. I have always turned to God when something troubles my heart, and this situation is no exception. I pray for my aunt’s health, for the healthcare professionals involved in her treatment, and for the wisdom our family will need as we navigate the coming weeks. I pray that she receives appropriate care and that we find ways to support her without allowing fear to govern every decision.

There are moments when I want to ask God for an immediate miracle, something that would remove the illness and restore the ordinary peace we enjoyed before the diagnosis.

I know how human that wish is.

When somebody we love is suffering, we naturally want the difficulty to disappear. We imagine that if we pray sincerely enough, perhaps the situation will change in the precise way we hope. I believe in God’s power and compassion, but I am also aware that faith does not provide us with certainty about medical outcomes. I do not know what treatment will bring or how the coming months will unfold. What I can do is continue praying while recognising the importance of appropriate medical care and the decisions made with her healthcare team.

I hope my faith will help me remain compassionate rather than make me feel obligated to pretend that I am never afraid.

Sometimes I think people misunderstand what it means to trust God. They imagine that faith should eliminate anxiety altogether, as though believing somehow makes a person incapable of worrying. But I do worry. I worry about my aunt, about the challenges she may face, and about the things our family does not yet understand. There are moments when I feel overwhelmed by questions, and times when I wish I could stop thinking long enough to enjoy an ordinary afternoon.

I do not believe those feelings mean my faith has disappeared.

Perhaps prayer is especially meaningful when we have no carefully prepared explanation for what we are experiencing. I can speak to God about my fears, my frustration, and my uncertainty without pretending that everything makes sense to me. I can hope for improvement while acknowledging that I do not know exactly what the future holds.

And perhaps I can learn to be patient with myself while I try to understand what has happened.

I have always enjoyed writing because it gives me a place to arrange thoughts that otherwise become crowded inside my head. Sometimes I begin with an ordinary observation and discover, several paragraphs later, that I was actually trying to understand something entirely different. Other times, I write because I want to preserve a happy memory before the details become difficult to recall.

Today, I am writing because I do not know what else to do with these feelings.

I have tried distracting myself with ordinary activities, but the news returns to my thoughts at unexpected moments. I might be thinking about work or preparing for another duty when I suddenly remember the diagnosis. Then the questions begin again, often accompanied by the same frustration I felt when I first heard about it.

I suppose I had imagined that being a nurse would make me more prepared for situations like this.

In some ways, perhaps it has. I understand the value of medical assessment and treatment, and I know that accurate information is important when facing a serious diagnosis. But nursing school never promised to make me emotionally unaffected by the illnesses of people I love. Clinical knowledge can help us understand a condition, but it cannot remove the personal attachment that makes the situation frightening.

Perhaps there is some humility in accepting that.

I can be a nurse and still be a worried niece.

I can understand medical terminology and still wish I had never needed to hear it in connection with my family.

I can believe in God and still have questions that remain unanswered.

And I can hope for a favourable outcome without knowing how everything will unfold.

I think I need to allow myself those contradictions instead of constantly searching for the correct way to feel. There is no examination requiring me to choose between fear and hope, and no particular timetable by which I must become comfortable discussing the diagnosis. I am still trying to understand the situation, just as our family is beginning to learn what the coming weeks may require.

For now, I hope we can take things as they come, guided by the information provided by her healthcare team and the needs my aunt expresses along the way. There will be practical responsibilities to consider, conversations to have, and perhaps difficult moments we cannot anticipate. But there may also be ordinary days when we can laugh, share meals, and enjoy one another’s company without allowing the diagnosis to occupy every available space.

I want to remember that possibility.

Cancer is a serious illness, and I would never pretend that determination alone can determine its outcome. But neither do I want fear to convince me that the future has already been written. There are treatments, professional expertise, and individual clinical circumstances that will influence what happens next. We need reliable information, appropriate care, and the patience to understand each stage as it comes.

Perhaps the most responsible thing I can do is resist the temptation to predict everything before we have even begun.

That is difficult for someone like me, particularly because I have a habit of examining situations from several different angles until I have exhausted both the subject and myself. I like understanding things. I like knowing what to expect. I would much rather face a difficult situation with a clear plan than remain uncertain about which direction life may take.

Unfortunately, life does not always provide its plans in advance.

Sometimes it simply interrupts an ordinary day and leaves us trying to understand what has changed.

I began this entry staring at a blank page, frustrated because the words that usually come so naturally had become difficult to find. I wanted to explain how I felt, but every attempt seemed inadequate. How could a few paragraphs capture the shock of hearing a serious diagnosis, the fear of what it might mean, and the concern I feel for someone who matters to me?

Perhaps they cannot.

Perhaps writing does not always need to explain everything perfectly.

Sometimes it is enough to acknowledge that something has happened and that we are still trying to understand it.

I do not know what the next few months will bring for my aunt. I cannot promise an easy journey, and I do not want to offer comforting predictions simply because uncertainty is difficult to tolerate. But I can continue loving her, supporting her, praying for her, and trusting that the healthcare professionals involved will help her understand the options available.

I can also remind myself that her diagnosis does not define the whole of her life.

She is still my aunt. She remains part of our family, someone whose importance cannot be reduced to a medical condition or a number describing the stage of an illness. There are memories, relationships, and ordinary moments that continue to matter. I hope the days ahead will contain opportunities for those things alongside whatever care and treatment may be necessary.

As for my biggest fear, perhaps I am beginning to recognise its true nature. It is not simply the fear of illness or uncertainty. It is the thought that something could happen to a person I love and that I might be unable to prevent it. Nursing has taught me the importance of responding responsibly when someone needs care, but family life is reminding me that we cannot control every circumstance affecting the people closest to us.

That is a difficult lesson to accept.

I would much rather have an instruction manual, complete with numbered steps, reassuring explanations, and a guarantee printed somewhere near the final page. But there is no such manual waiting on my desk. There is only the information we have been given, the questions we still need to ask, and our responsibility to face the situation with as much understanding and compassion as we can manage.

I hope that in time, I will look back on this entry and recognise that we found ways to support one another through a period that currently feels frightening. I hope there will be better news to write about, ordinary family moments to preserve, and reasons to be grateful that I cannot yet imagine.

For now, I will continue praying.

Not because I believe prayer removes every difficult question, but because faith gives me a place to bring the questions I cannot answer.

And tonight, my prayer is a simple one: Lord, please watch over my aunt. Guide the people responsible for her care, give our family wisdom and patience, and help us offer her the understanding and support she deserves. When fear makes it difficult to think clearly, remind us to seek reliable information rather than surrender to assumptions. When the coming days feel uncertain, help us recognise what we can do today.

I started writing this because I could not find the words.

I still cannot find all of them.

But perhaps that is what happens when fear finally learns the name of someone you love. The mind searches for explanations, the heart asks questions, and the ordinary language we use every day suddenly feels insufficient.

I have spent much of my nursing career so far learning how to care for people during difficult circumstances. Now, life is asking me to understand what it feels like to stand on the other side of that concern, where knowledge cannot eliminate emotion and love makes every uncertainty feel personal.

I wish I knew exactly how this chapter would end.

But today, I only know where it begins: with a diagnosis we are still trying to understand, an aunt we love dearly, and a family hoping to find its way through the days ahead.

Perhaps courage, for now, means allowing ourselves to be afraid while continuing to care for one another.

From my 2014 journal — for my aunt, for the questions our family cannot yet answer, and for the faith that accompanies us through uncertainty.

— Just Anj, RN, a niece before anything else.