It Took My Husband Having Cancer to Learn How to Ask for Help
Why I Stopped Shooting the Second Arrow of Suffering and Let My Community Step In.
(Content Warning: This post discusses cancer, chemotherapy, and caregiving. Please take care of yourself if you are not ready to read about these topics.)
The night my husband, Brian, was diagnosed with Testicular Cancer was also my first (and perfect) Mother’s Day. Lying awake, watching my nine-month-old twins on the monitor, all I could do was wait for Brian’s texts from the ER. The pain of being physically separated from him, forced to stay home with the babies until our nanny arrived, was excruciating. It was a familiar, heartbreaking echo of when our boys were in the NICU—a piece of me was missing.
When I finally reached him, Brian, my incredibly resilient light, assured me it was a “good cancer,” highly curable, with famous survivors like Lance Armstrong. That brief assurance shattered when the CT scan revealed an enlarged lymph node. We both knew what that meant: the cancer had spread, and intensive treatment was inevitable.
The Commitment and the Conflict
I have witnessed up close the immense burden of caregiving, watching my mother dedicate herself to my father during his final years. I knew I was ready to emulate that “all in” dedication for Brian, my person. But I had a fundamental conflict: I was already “all in” for two tiny humans who needed their primary parents.
As a hyper-independent couple, relying on others was a foreign concept. Having twins didn’t magically expedite our realization that “it takes a village.” We took immense pride in co-creating our family environment, eager to cuddle, change, and be present for our boys, especially after their NICU start. Up to this point, our “village” had been one reliable, paid part-time nanny. This was a relationship where we were the employers—comfortable setting boundaries and expectations—a less vulnerable arrangement than leaning on friends or family.
I struggled with the idea of asking family and friends, aside from a select few, for simple help—unloading the dishwasher, doing laundry, cleaning up meals. I wrongly believed that accepting help for these tasks would communicate that I was unable to care for my own children. This feeling is common for many parents, especially mothers, who feel pressured to be “Super Mom.” We can do it all, sure, but at what cost?
Extremes Lead to Change
Brian’s chemotherapy forced me to think differently. My co-parent had to focus on being a patient and prioritizing his health. I had two infants who depended on me to meet their every need. I was in an extreme scenario that required me to remove my pride and open up to our community for hands-on support: healthy meals, weekend childcare, and even weeknight bath time help.
At first, it felt odd to run a meal train spreadsheet or to have a friend clean the floor after a messy meal. But as treatment grew harder, I had no choice. Delegating became second nature, and I reframed my belief:
Asking for help doesn’t mean I’m unable to care for my children. It means I can care for them as a better, more present version of myself.
Now, instead of postponing chores until naps or bedtime—stealing the rest I desperately needed—I could actually sit on the floor and enjoy our twins. Giving them a fuller version of myself, especially when one of their parents wasn’t able to participate in the way that they would’ve wanted.
The Two Arrows and Self-Compassion
Parenting decisions, and how you lean on your support system, are deeply personal. The lesson here is to truly lean on your village—and let go of the shame over asking for the “little things.”
The secondary lesson, borrowing from Dr. Brené Brown, is “clear is kind.” I learned to clearly communicate what was most helpful to me. For me, that’s usually not “holding a baby (or in my case babies)” while I rush to cook or do chores; it’s tackling the to-do list (dishes, laundry, cleaning) so I can focus on and enjoy my littles. When you have willing extra hands, use them wisely.
My hope is that you practice self-compassion and self-preservation, whatever challenge you are facing. I think often of the Buddhist teaching on the Two Arrows of Suffering:
The First Arrow: The actual suffering (a cancer diagnosis, new parenthood). This is not in our control.
The Second Arrow: Our reaction and internal dialogue to said suffering (feeling shame, not asking for help, believing we have to do it all). This arrow is within our control.
Why shoot the second arrow? If you are struggling, take a step back and ask yourself: Am I shooting a second arrow at myself? How can I be kinder to myself?
That might mean asking your community for support, taking time to rest, or practicing self-compassion. If you’re looking to start, I highly recommend Lovingkindness Meditations and/or writing a letter to yourself imagining you were your closest friend. I’m deeply grateful for Sharon Salzberg, Tara Brach, and Dr. Kristin Neff’s teachings regarding Self-Compassion. Each of these teachers and scholars have insightful books, research, and resources to further explore.