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When cancer touches a couple

His wife's illness forced writer Mark Morrison to redefine what it means to be there for someone you love.

By Mark Morrison

t is three years since my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. But this isn't about her ordeal. It's about mine. Not because my hardship as the spouse of a cancer patient was in any way comparable to hers. But because with everything that has been reported about the disease -- with all the books and TV talk shows and magazine articles that have plumbed the subject -- the stories have rarely addressed the issues faced by the husbands and boyfriends, as if it weren't happening to them. But something is.

Before my wife's illness, I'd always considered myself a thoughtful, sensitive guy. The kind who remembered birthdays and anniversaries; who brought home flowers for no special reason; who shared household chores and helped with the kids; and whose culinary expertise was not limited to the barbecue.

It might also help to understand that I've known Merrill since we were 16. She was the tall girl with the green eyes who sat two seats in front of me in Intermediate Algebra class. Who became my best friend. Who changed my life. After 22 years of marriage and two children, I figured I'd certainly be able to support Merrill through nine arduous months of chemotherapy and radiation treatments.

I started off well-intentioned enough. I held her hand through appointments with the oncologist and the surgeon, actively asking questions and tape- recording medical conversations. I wrapped my arm around her at the sight of cancer patients in floppy hats or kerchiefs, assuring her she wouldn't lose her long chestnut hair during chemo (and she didn't). I read handouts from the doctor's office, including When a Woman You Love Has Breast Cancer (which says that "most couples are drawn closer together by the experience"). Because she would spend a lot of time resting after her lumpectomy, I went out and splurged on silky 600-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, complete with color-coordinated duvet cover and contrasting pillow shams, and surprised her with a complete king-bed makeover when she returned from the hospital. And as the months passed, I got the kids off to school, drove car pool and fielded phone calls from concerned friends and relatives.

Along the way, I told myself: "You're doing a great job. You're functioning." But eventually I began to fall back into old routines, as if life hadn't changed.

Merrill grew increasingly depressed, not to mention nauseated, fatigued and bored. Because there were no visible public reminders of the disease, it was easy for others to forget she was still coping with an illness. And she felt alone: torn between wanting everyone's support and trying to keep our daily life as routine as possible. I knew this, but I didn't always know what to do for her. And in a strange way, I envied Merrill. She had her work cut out for her. She had no choice but to focus on her prescribed regimen of treatments, doctor visits, medications, vitamins, acupuncture, support group meetings.

Meanwhile, I was emotionally at sea -- detached, on automatic. For a guy who is not afraid to show his feelings, I turned surprisingly stoic, dealing only with the immediate, while constantly bracing myself for any new dangers or developments. I thought this external show of strength would help. Instead, it distanced me from my feelings. It's as Olympic skater and cancer patient Peggy Fleming has said: Coping with breast cancer is almost easier for the woman, because she knows what her job is, while family members orbit around her in confusion, trying to figure out what to do, how to feel.

My guy friends were mostly useless. When I tried to talk about it with a couple of buddies, they minimized my worries. "The doctor said she's looking good, right? So why worry?" they'd say, brushing away my fears because it was too scary to even think about how they'd deal with cancer striking their own marriages.

I wanted to be one of those "dream husbands" you read about in People -- like NFL linebacker Chris Spielman, who took a leave of absence from his football career in 1998 to take care of his young family while his wife recovered from breast cancer. Or the story of a now married couple whose love story grew out of her battle with breast cancer: A longtime admirer, he rallied to her side where others would have retreated, and the two fell in love.

While these are moving stories, I've learned that being there for your partner isn't about grand gestures. It involves everyday acts of intimacy and affection, doing the little things that let a woman know she is still a woman. These might include asking your wife to show you the scar on her breast to help her past any awkwardness she may have about it; reassuring her -- in words as well as deeds -- that she's still as attractive as she's ever been; making sure, now more than ever, that no physical distance grows between you.

It is now over two years since Merrill completed her treatment, and she's doing fine, the doctors say. We're among the lucky ones, and we know it. But that doesn't make her quarterly appointments with the oncologist any less stressful. The reality is that we will always live in the shadow of this disease.

I don't know if the experience has brought us closer; I do know there are times it nearly drove us apart. But, ultimately, it forced me to redefine what it means to be there for someone you love.

I always thought I was, but now I know what that really means.

In coping with breast cancer, the real heroics come from everyday intimacy, doing little things that let a woman know she's still a woman.

Since 1995, writer Mark Morrison has chronicled some of his poignant life stories in first-person columns for USA WEEKEND Magazine. Topics have included traveling with three generations of family, teaching his teen daughter to drive, and the lingering effects of a parent's divorce. Come to usaweekend.com for an archive. Morrison is the West Coast editor of In Style magazine.