My mother died of pancreatic cancer, over a decade ago. At initial diagnosis, she was given 6-9 months to live. She fought it for 2 years. When she died, I felt as though part of my guts had been ripped out. I still feel that way today.
Not long after she died, I was made redundant and then started work at a new place. There was a guy there who had started before I did, but was still on a temporary contract, while I was permanent. I didn't know that he was a temp until many years later but, in the meantime, it caused some frigidity between us. And then we became firm friends ... some might say that we became firm co-conspirators.
Oh, we weren't going to bring the organisation down to its knees. But we did, unintentionally, conspire to bring some frivolity and lightness into our work area. When he and I started on one of our public conversations - private conversations were VERY different - there was a mix of anticipation and agony from those we worked with. Which, in its own way, did much more for staff morale than anything management tried to do.
Anyway, a few years later my mate - and I'm proud to call him a "mate" - was diagnosed with cancer. He spent many many hours in the operating theatre, in therapy, back in hospital, having more operations, in more radio and chemo-therapy. Eventually, he made it back to work. I've left the organisation and moved 800 km away since then, and he's now been made redundant. [I've been told that "it's just not the same since you and name deleted left."]
My mate and his wife came over and spent the just-gone weekend with us. It was lovely (and prompted this post).
My on-going and continual depression about my mother's death is partially overturned by my mate's survival. I wouldn't say that his "quality of life" is anything like what he used to have, but he is living and breathing.
And it is proof that there is life after cancer, that you can beat it, that you can stay alive.
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