My name is Zane. I am a confessed workaholic, coffeeholic, and a recovering family member of a cancer patient. This blog is not about my work, nor about my love for coffee, but my experience with nursing my husband through his pancreatic cancer. There is much I can’t share because it belongs to my deceased husband, but there is much more I can share. Some of it you may find useful. Some of it you will find a useless exercise.

Why, you could ask, would I breathe new life into memories that are better left buried in the hurtful past? The truth is that cancer is the world’s number one horror film. It never leaves your memory but surfaces when you least expect it to. Sometimes, even the Artansia flooding the flower shops on Mother’s Day bring back not just a memory but a smile, or maybe a tear because the whole family also got Artansias making yours not so special, or maybe a غصة because the person who used to bring them has been so wronged by this horrifying disease. It never goes away because there are infinite versions of the Artansia.

But Artansias bloom in spring and are a symbol of rebirth, and so we must continue living our lives as best we can, making new memories, new shared histories, and new futures.

So the reason I am digging up memories better left buried is that we all cope in different ways. This is my way of putting it to rest. Of coming to terms. Of putting out a hand to those who are nursing their loved ones through their most difficult experience and to those who are themselves facing the final curtain. If my experience gives any of you some respite, a feeling of shared histories, a shoulder, then my life would have more meaning.

Visited by an Angel

“You can do it, Khalil.” “You’re doing fine.” “You’re so strong; you will beat it.” It was all my attempt to make Khalil fight and cope even though I had already read up on pancreatic cancer and knew that it was a terminal kind of cancer. By the time you discover it, it’s usually too late to medicate unless you are among the lucky few. His doctor told us from day one that there was no hope. It’s all downhill from here. But for some reason, I felt I needed to encourage him, to help him fight back and have hope. I often heard that your temperament or نفسيه was a decisive factor in recovery and that the right attitude, being optimistic, fighting, would make that nightmare go away.

One day, though, my son told me, “Mom, I am not sure this is a good idea. You are putting too much pressure on him.”

Baffled, I asked, “Pressure? How can that be? I am helping him fight back or at least to cope better.”

“But that’s not what happens,” he answered. “When you do that and they don’t get better, they feel they have failed you, let you down, disappointed you.”

It then dawned on me to seek advice from someone with experience. This led me to a friend who introduced me to SANAD, a hospice organization dedicated to supporting not just cancer patients but also their families in every way imaginable. The support SANAD’s team provided went far beyond what I had expected.

The SANAD nurse assigned to us transformed our experience. She was not just there to provide medical care but to bring a level of compassion and humanity that no amount of money could buy. From the delicate care she showed while administering medications to the thoughtful conversations that soothed our frayed emotions, she was a pillar of strength and comfort.

When Khalil’s veins became fragile, her patience and gentle approach made even the most painful procedures bearable. Her understanding of the emotional toll on our family was evident in how she interacted with each of us, tailoring her support to our individual needs. Whether empowering my daughter to take charge, comforting my younger son, or engaging my elder son in professional yet empathetic discussions, her presence was invaluable.

In Khalil’s final days, the nurse prepared us for what was to come, explaining the phases of the “dying trajectories.” Her guidance during this time was both practical and deeply compassionate. When Khalil took his last breath, she was there, not just as a caregiver but as a member of our extended family, sharing in our grief and helping us say goodbye with dignity.

The saying goes that when God closes a door, He opens another one. I say that when God puts you through unbearable suffering and pain, He sends you an angel to see you through it all. For us, that angel came through SANAD. They were truly our سند, our support, ensuring that Khalil could spend his final moments at home, surrounded by love and comfort.