When I was a child, the adult world seemed simple. Looking at my parents and neighbors from a suburban child’s eye, there seemed to be predictability to adult life. Some adults went to work, some stayed home, mothers drove carpools, and fathers threw baseballs and fixed cars. The adult world just seemed to march on without missing a beat.

As I moved through adolescence, my perspective widened. Mr. McCashen, one of the dads in the neighborhood, traveled for business. While on business, attackers stole his wallet. They beat him so badly he was left with severe brain damage, limited speech, inability to use his left arm, as well as other impairments. I’d watch him limp to the mailbox with the gait of a toddler. He never got better. He couldn’t work, speak, or comprehend what he read. His life was taken. His family’s life was forever altered.

Then there were the Koltens, who had six children. They always played together outside in front of their house. Passing by their house, I could see their mother watching over her brood through open curtains. Then one day, the curtains were closed. One day turned into ten, and then a few months passed. It was then I overheard whisperings about the youngest Kolten. He had slid down in the highchair, got caught on the belt strap, and died. After that, I never saw them again. Maybe it was the making of my yet-to-be career as a psychologist, but I wanted to know how they were feeling and coping. What went on behind those closed curtains?

Years passed and I fulfilled my career dream to become a psychologist. People walked into my office to share depression, anxiety, loss, conflicts, and more. They revealed emotions and thoughts they often kept from loved ones and friends. I learned from their bravery and experiences. Yet, in the beginning of 2016, I was on the precipice of a crash course that only firsthand experience can teach. I was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a blood cancer, tipped off by a fractured vertebra in my back.

Armed with notebooks of information about medical procedures and medication, I felt ready for what would ensue—only to find out there were missing chapters. How do I tell my loved ones what is happening? Why do I start weeping even when I don’t feel sad? Where did this overwhelming anxiety come from? What should I tell my colleagues? Will I die?  There is so much I wish I had known.

And, so it is, that I set out to write this to blend my professional knowledge with experiences to help people navigate these times. After all, we all just wish we had known.

Featured image courtesy of YiMeng Yuan on Unsplash.