Carmen Monge-Montero, Researcher and Global Cancer Advocate, shared a post on LinkedIn:
“It’s not harder or easier….just different: When a fellow cancer friend relapses or we say Goodbye.
This reflection has been with me for a long time, shaped by working in cancer after cancer. A recent loss reminded me why it matters. It is full of friendship, young advocacy, relapse, loss, and purpose.
I want to ask other patient advocates:
How do you take care of yourself during difficult moments?
Losing or seeing a relapse in a fellow cancer friend is not like losing any other friend. It’s not harder or easier; it’s just different.
When you meet someone who has been through the same thing as you, or something similar, there is an instant connection. You become more empathetic to their blessings and their challenges. You smile at them, because you know they will smile back, thinking the same thing: we are lucky to still be here. In a strange way, you may even feel grateful for having had cancer, because it gave you the chance to meet this incredible person.
Losing a fellow cancer friend reminds us how fragile life is. It brings a mix of grief, guilt, and fear. I’m still here. I get another chance. I don’t always know what for, why them and not me. I’m sad to have lost a friend, and yet I also feel a little selfish, because loss makes me think about my own purpose, my endpoint, and the fear of relapse.
When a friend relapses, it hits differently too. We want to support them, but even we, who have been there, often don’t know what to do to help. One thing I do know is that being present matters. We know how painful it is when people disappear in moments like this.
People sometimes ask: Why keep working in this field if it brings so much pain and fear? The truth is, I have said goodbye to too many friends, more than most people my age. But in a way, it is still worth it. It is part of life. Every feeling, every extraordinary person we meet adds meaning and depth to our experience.
“They left too soon” is a common phrase when someone dies young. And it makes sense: we are taught to value long lifes, full of plans and achievements. A short life can feel too small for everything we want to do. But a short life can be just as valuable as a long one, sometimes even more intense.
I don’t believe that dying young is necessarily a wasted life. They lived what they were meant to live. They experienced love, joy, pain, and connection. Everything they lived had value. They came to show us something, and we can decide whether that lesson leaves with them or stays with us.
As a young person who has had cancer, death becomes more present in everyday thoughts. Before cancer, planning long-term was a passion of mine. After diagnosis, I learned to plan only short-term, always with the thought in the back of my mind: what if something happens? Twelve years later, this has softened a little, but it has never completely gone away. A close encounter with death at a young age stays with you for a long time.
Working in cancer after having cancer feels like being a zebra, a symbol of balance between uncertainty and purpose. Each zebra’s stripes are unique, like fingerprints. And zebras take care of each other. Still, even those of us who work in this field and live with this reality often fail to take care of ourselves. We don’t always allow space for shared grief, even though it is necessary. Sometimes we need to take a step back from these scenarios.
This happened to me this year. A friend reminded me that we should be gentle with ourselves , and that it’s okay to step away when the environment becomes too heavy to carry. I did step back. And I came back stronger, less afraid of writing, and even of publishing more.
If life is going to be short, then maybe the goal is not to make it longer, but to make it worthy.
How do you take care of yourself while working in spaces where loss and uncertainty are part of the reality?”
More posts featuring Carmen Monge-Montero on OncoDaily.