It started with the cancer.
Cancer followed me throughout my whole life. From the friend who died of it when we were thirteen, to my advisor getting it a second time last year, to my grandfather.
Finding out my grandfather had stage four pancreatic cancer on December 21st, 2021 was the start of everything. Finding out that we didn’t know if he had a couple of weeks or a couple years. Finding out that no matter what the doctors did, he was going to die.
I never had a close relationship with him, so I can’t say I feel anything. I’m aware he’s dying; I know he’s in pain, but I can’t say I feel any sense of sorrow.
My mom sure does, as does my aunt. His wife does. It makes my brother and his fiancé question how they’d deal with their parents dying.
But the feelings I have are simply echoes of those around me. I’m not sad, but I’m aware that those I love are, and that is where I feel remorse.
Then it was the news that my aunt was moving. She’s moving to Scotland with my uncle and my cousin. There’s a high chance I won’t see them for a while. Maybe never again if I go to Finland for grad school.
Everyone is devastated. My mother, my grandmothers, my grandfather. Even my aunt isn’t thrilled about leaving her whole family.
Everything is taking a toll on the family dynamic. I haven’t seen my aunt casually for a good bit. Only in passing when I see my cousin, which in itself is rare. Somedays my grandfather doesn’t allow me over; he’s scared of me seeing him in such a state. It’s hard to remember when we’d all sit down for a meal during the holidays. To remember what life was like before the world began to tremble. Before it began to crack and break.
When will it shatter?
Sometimes I wonder if it just hasn’t set in yet. The melancholy my family feels. Maybe I’m just numb because I need to experience these pains to actively feel them, but I don’t know how experiencing it would change my perspective. People leaving stopped affecting me long ago.
I’m just a viewer. An audience member. Watching as this shitshow plays out. Act one was the cancer, act two was the move, and I have no idea how act three can top any of this.
I don’t feel the actors’ fear, anger, or misery. Just a strong form of empathy as I see them cry and fight. These feelings aren’t my own; I’m just trapped in the pews, waiting for the curtain to close.
I could close my eyes. I could block out the noise coming from the stage. I could simply run out of the theater, never looking back, and pretend all I saw was in the past.
But I stay seated. I watch as the spotlight hits a new character seemingly every hour. I clench the armrests as more and more lines are thrown from one side to another. I absorb the performance in front of me, anticipating and dreading the finale.
I’m in the middle of a three-act tragedy, and none of my feelings are my own.
