It began with a blanket, a pair of noise-canceling headphones, and a room-temperature drink.
John settled into his chemotherapy recliner while I made sure everything he might need was within reach. Once he drifted off to sleep, I opened my laptop to answer a few emails and catch up on work.
At the time, it felt like an ordinary morning.
Looking back, I think I was unknowingly interviewing for a job I never realized I would have.
A job no one ever applies for.
As John’s treatment continued, the responsibilities multiplied. I learned an entirely new vocabulary. I watched closely for side effects and subtle changes that might mean something important. I joined online colon cancer forums to learn how other families were managing the challenges we were facing. At night, I slept with one ear open, listening for any sound that suggested something wasn’t right.
Like so many caregivers, I was learning as I went.
What surprised me most wasn’t the work itself. It was how quickly it became invisible.
People would often ask John how he was doing. They should have. He was the one living with cancer.
What I didn’t notice at the time, and what I probably did myself before cancer entered our lives, was how rarely anyone asked the caregiver the same question.
It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Until you’ve walked beside someone through a serious illness, it’s easy to see only the patient.
Now I know there are always two stories unfolding. One is written in medical records. The other is written in countless behind-the-scenes acts of love. One belongs to the person receiving treatment. The other belongs to the person, in the background, learning how to hold everything together.
Ironically, it took becoming a patient myself to understand another part of John’s experience.
After my recent knee replacement, every physician, nurse, and physical therapist gave me the same advice.
“You’re doing great. Just don’t fall.”
Their words stayed with me. I became acutely aware of every step I took. The fear of falling was always in the back of my mind.
Then I thought about John.
Chemotherapy had left him with neuropathy. He had lost so much weight that he seemed almost fragile. Because of the numbness in his feet, his balance was never quite the same.
I spent so much time worrying that he might fall.
What I never fully appreciated was that he must have been worried too.
At least I could still feel my feet.
That realization hit me recently.
Even after years of caregiving, there were still parts of his experience I hadn’t fully understood until I briefly needed caregiving myself.
It also reminded me of something I’ve come to believe about caregiving.
Caregivers are not simply companions on the journey. They are valuable members of the care team.
We notice subtle changes that others don’t see. We observe side effects between appointments. We remember what was said during office visits. We ask questions, connect the dots, solve problems, and advocate when our loved one is too exhausted to do so themselves.
Our observations matter.
Our concerns matter.
Our voices matter.
Perhaps that’s why I found some comfort in caregiving despite its uncertainty. My background in project management taught me how to organize complex situations, anticipate risks, solve problems, and adapt when plans changed. Those skills didn’t make the journey easier, but they helped me navigate it.
I’ve since realized that every caregiver brings something valuable to the role. A teacher communicates clearly. A nurse notices patterns. An accountant meticulously tracks medications and expenses. A mechanic solves practical problems. A parent knows how to comfort someone through difficult moments.
None of us begin as experts.
We simply draw upon the strengths we already have.
That’s one of the reasons I’m so passionate about improving support for caregivers. During my time with the Cancer Nation Leadership Academy, I’ll be working to develop a practical caregiver preparedness toolkit that helps families build confidence through education, practical tools, emotional support, and resource navigation.
Because caregivers deserve more than good intentions.
They deserve preparation.
Caregivers will always learn through experience. But experience shouldn’t be their only teacher.
If we’re going to ask ordinary people to take on one of life’s most demanding roles, we owe them more than encouragement. We owe them practical tools, guidance, and the confidence to know they belong at the table.
No one can eliminate the uncertainty of a cancer journey.
But we can make sure the people walking beside the patient don’t have to begin that journey feeling completely unprepared.
Looking back, I still think about that blanket, those headphones, and that room-temperature drink.
At the time, they felt like small acts of love.
Now I know they were the first tasks in a job I never expected to have.
The job no one ever applies for.
