In Focus

Grief is contagious.

To say this has been a busy and stressful summer would be an understatement. Mom’s battle with cancer has been only half of it.

Recently, my boyfriend lost his older brother to cancer. After spending his entire life in and out of hospitals for medical conditions he was born with, and for countless surgeries, and also living with a tracheostomy, he made the difficult decision not to pursue treatment.

He was only 41 years old.

From what little time I knew him, he was always smiling. He loved to joke around, adored Chewbacca and, for whatever reason, the color pink. I wish I had gotten to know the healthy version of him. Half the time I’d known him, he was already sick, and before long he entered hospice.

Watching his decline was heartbreaking. He was never a large man, but by the end he weighed around 80 pounds. My boyfriend made a point to visit him every other weekend, and as his condition worsened, those visits became weekly. Eventually, he was transferred to a hospice house, where he spent his final four days. My boyfriend and his mother stayed by his side until the very end.

His death was devastating, but it also brought relief. His suffering was finally over.

Even in death, his personality shined through.

He had planned his own funeral down to the meal: chicken Alfredo and seven different kinds of bars for dessert. At the visitation, posters displayed photos of him horseback riding, singing karaoke and enjoying life. Stuffed animals he’d had since childhood sat alongside holiday decorations—a reminder of how much he loved decorating for every season.

Ironically, I found the visitation more emotional than the funeral itself.

People shared story after story about him—things they had done together, the memories they would cherish, the jokes they would miss. The common thread through every story was simple: no matter what life threw at him, he never stopped smiling.

This wasn’t how I imagined meeting the rest of my boyfriend’s family. Yet despite the circumstances, they welcomed me with kindness. They found reasons to laugh between the tears, even as one uncle grieved the recent loss of his own wife to cancer.

I was sad, of course, but my grief was different from theirs. I wasn’t mourning decades of memories. I was mourning the person I never really got the chance to know—the fun-loving man everyone described so vividly. I’m grateful he was able to live a full life despite the medical challenges he faced.

Now comes the part no one prepares you for: finding a new normal.

His mother suddenly has free time she doesn’t know what to do with. She and her husband hadn’t left the house together in more than six months because someone always needed to be there with him. They’ve spent weeks sorting through mountains of medical supplies, and somehow they continue to find more. He also had a thing for fun hats, which the family was welcome to take as a keepsake.

My boyfriend is doing about as well as anyone could expect. There are good days and difficult moments. Grief has a way of showing up when you least expect it.

I’ve learned something this summer that I hadn’t really thought about before: grief is contagious.

It spreads through families, through friends and through the people who love those who are hurting. Even if the loss isn’t yours, you carry pieces of it. You watch someone you love struggle, and in turn, you grieve with them.

Cancer doesn’t just affect the person diagnosed. It touches everyone around them.

As strange as it may sound, one of the most comforting parts of the weekend was talking with his mother and uncle. Both had spent months caring for loved ones with cancer, and as I continue helping my own mom through her fight, there was an immediate understanding between us. We didn’t have to explain the exhaustion, the uncertainty or the emotional toll that comes with being a caregiver. We simply knew.

This has all been a reminder that grief isn’t something you “get over.” Instead, you learn to carry it. Slowly, life finds a new rhythm, and eventually, so do the people left behind.