By Kelley Spencer 
Life can take a harsh turn by simply hearing a few words.
“There is no heartbeat.” I’ll never forget those words that came off the nurse’s lips as that feeling of grief and dread came over me. I remember everything so vividly.
This time, the life-changing words were, “I have cancer” spoken by my father on the phone days before Father’s Day. Before he even said them, I already knew deep down in my gut. I paced around my backyard, feeling like yelling and crying simultaneously, and trying to hold it together as my boys played nearby.
My knees felt like they could collapse with my feet beneath me. My heart felt like it might instantly pop out of my tight chest. My breath was short and shallow as I responded, “This isn’t fair” and “This can’t be happening.”
Before this, life felt like it was coming together–things were in a good, comfortable spot, planning outings for the summer and time spent with my parents at their lake home. Then, the rug was abruptly torn out from underneath my dad and everyone in my family. Whoosh! We were all on the ground, trying to be strong and get back up to support my dad, not knowing what the outcome would be.
One moment we were visiting my parents in Florida, playing in the waves and sand, and enjoying the simple pleasures of staying at the beach. My brain was in a state of joy and happiness, completely unaware that months later, everything would change, and my dad would be fighting for his life.
A blur of scans, emergency visits, and calls or texts from my mom updating us with more news, both good and bad in the months after his cancer diagnosis. It felt like a terrible dream I wanted to desperately wake up from but couldn’t. Numerous times, I feared we would lose my dad. I feared for that call from my mom to tell me he was gone. I felt numb this summer, thinking about how this would all play out. Would my family be torn apart by loss? Would we ever be the same again?
I tried to hold both grief and joy in my hands at the same time; it wasn’t easy. I took my boys to the zoo, playdates, and on a family vacation to California, trying to focus on the moment and let go of what I couldn’t change. I fought to stay strong and not crumble with every ounce of myself.
My emotions at times plagued me and wreaked havoc on my mind. “Stay optimistic,” I told myself again and again. “Hold onto hope, Kelley. You can’t let your mind go to the negative outcomes and what-ifs.” I decided to hold onto hope and faith even though my mind and body felt numb, out of control, and terrified.
In early August, my dad had a lifesaving surgery to remove the mass they found, and he is currently still in recovery. I don’t think it’s possible to take life for granted after this mess.
Cancer became the stark reminder that control is merely an illusion. We may think we have control over our lives and what happens to us, but we don’t. We have very little control over it all.
Sometimes, I mistakenly think that if I hold onto things tightly and try to control things, it will ensure my safety, stability, protection, and predictability. The anxiety that I battle thinks it can take the wheel too. The truth is that life is constantly changing and unpredictable. We think we know where it’s going, but then another rug is pulled out from underneath us, and we cannot stop it.
Cancer reminded me of this harsh truth. I’m learning how important it is to let go of the things we can’t control and to focus our time and energy on what we can control instead.
If you’re facing a mountain right now, I want you to practice letting go of control and opening your hands . . . even when your fists want to clench and hang on tighter. You can hold joy and grief together and fight for optimism and hope. You can move through the hard, seemingly impossible things. You can face your deepest fears and push through them. If I can do it, you can too.
by Jennifer Thompson 
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by Brandon Janous 
