Taking Care of those who take care: Providing support and compassion for caretakers.

It all dates back to August 2012, the year my step-mother received her cancer diagnosis. Up until this date, I had only ever heard of cancer. I was 13, my sister was 11 and my brother was 9. I knew people who had it and had heard of people who passed from it, but never someone close to me. Candice was a non-smoker and 43 years old, a healthy, active, and independent woman - diagnosed with cancer. It started in her lungs as stage 1 non-small cell lung cancer. It transcended to her lymph nodes and to her brain over the years, and it always seemed to be one thing after the other - too much to even begin to recount. On my 18th birthday in 2016, she was diagnosed with 10 brain tumors ranging in size from 1-3cm. I would say this was a turning point in her journey, and when cancer really showed how ruthless it can be. She had multiple brain surgeries, rounds and rounds of radiation, chemotherapy drips, chemotherapy orals, broken bones from atrophy, surgeries left and right, multiple week/month long hospital stays, month long rehabilitation programs, until it took everything from her. While undergoing radiation back in 2017, she had a stroke which caused her to lose mobility in her right arm and leg. The damage took a few months to settle in, but as it did, it only got worse. I don’t know how to emphasize with my words that this is merely cliff notes and that every day was different, so you will just have to take my word for it.

Flash forward to 2020… COVID-19 was scary, however, we considered it a blessing. My dad was my step-mom’s full time caretaker from the start. In 2020, my step-mom had been struggling to get around for 3 years, and he progressively started taking on more and more responsibilities of hers. COVID-19 brought my dad home, and he could work from the bonus room opposed to commuting an hour both ways. My dad transitioned to working from home and never went back into his office of over 20 years. Flash forward to May of 2021, the week I graduated college. At the age of 59, my dad was diagnosed with stage 4 non-small cell lung cancer himself, also presenting itself in the brain. This was a shock. My dad was so healthy! He was a runner, always moving, always in the yard or on a walk. He never sat still. This was a part of our journey I would have never predicted. I knew cancer was ruthless, but I never expected it to touch them both. With the exception of a prostate cancer diagnosis in January of 2023, my dad was doing great. Due to his diagnosis being stage 4, he qualified for disability and retired early. His cancer was at bay, and he dedicated his life to caring for my step-mom with no outside help. He took his role so seriously, and I would encourage him to ask for help. But as her husband, he took his vow to her grave. Being the one who had seen her journey through since day 1, he was going to be the one to give her quality care - to him, nobody would do it like he did.

March of 2023 was when we discovered my dad’s treatment wasn’t working anymore. We switched to alternative chemotherapies, which took my dad out time and time again. He went from running 3-5 miles a day, to bedridden for 3 weeks after every infusion. No appetite for food and severe neuropathy, while using every ounce of energy he had to still keep fighting for his wife who was declining as well. At this point, Candice was 99% dependent on my dad for everything. She had lost all of her strength, and a lot of the sharpness and wit that we loved her for. One of the things my dad adored about Candice was how independent she was. I vividly remember him fervently celebrating her for being a strong and independent woman. I look back now as a 25 year-old woman and realize how important that was for the younger me to witness. Candice remembered everything about you, anything you told her, and anything you loved or were passionate about. She didn’t forget anything, even when you may have wanted her to. One gut wrenching side effect of brain radiation and surgery is the impending decline of cognition. There were times I would have to remind Candice names of her immediate family members, and then times she would tell me a memory from 2010 in perfect and accurate detail. The treatment had taken it’s toll, and sometimes it felt like Candice was already home, but she was always reminding us she was still in there fighting. In June of 2023, my dad finally agreed it was time we moved Candice into a facility that could care for her better than we could. I remember getting my dad out of the house while we moved her, and before we left he stood on the other side of the door looking at Candice in her recliner through the window, saying he just wanted to look at her for a second. He cried as he told me he knew it was the last time he would see her sitting there.

Candice passed away on August 24th, 2023 in the early morning. I will never forget my dad calling me at 5:03 am, crying “she’s gone Morgan, Candy is not with us anymore.” After losing Candice, everything fell apart. My dads new treatment wasn’t effective, he was heart broken, and his kids were his only will to live. Through all of this, my dad never questioned God or the journey he was on which comforted me. Not much was going right up until her passing either. I remember having this hope Candy would be protecting my Dad now, and by her miracle he would be okay. The neuropathy impeded his ability to walk. But he fought for his body - he would exercise daily and we did physical therapy twice a week. None the less, he dropped pounds every day. He had no taste for anything. But he kept fighting…until he couldn’t. His lungs started shutting down and he would break out in a cold sweat when he would move an inch. This was when we knew that he needed Hospice intervention. It was just 5 months after we lost Candice. 48 hours after our first call, I hugged my dad’s body before it turned cold, knowing it would be the last. I stood in the doorframe in his bedroom and looked at him in the bed, knowing it was the last time I would ever see him there. Walking away took every ounce of strength I had left. I immediately stepped out onto the sidewalk covered in snow with my bare feet out of desperation to wake up from this nightmare. That was January 18th, 2024.

This is my why. I need to help people like my dad and Candice. I want to help people who aren't as “lucky” as we were. I want to be very transparent and tell you that my dad was able to be there for Candice to the extent he was, because he got diagnosed with stage 4 cancer and was eligible for disability. We would often call ourselves lucky for my dad’s diagnosis and what it provided him. When someone you love is dying before your eyes, it’s hard to lay your head down at night knowing the call could come at any second. Standard in the US, you get 3 days of bereavement after the passing of an immediate relative. After you have lost that person. There are thousands of people who don’t have the blessing of insurance, their spouse getting a cancer diagnosis that allows them to be present, a flexible job, or financial freedom. There are people who can’t let go, and just need a break from time to time - that was my dad. There are people who are forced to let go, because they can’t afford to hang on. They can’t afford to attend their loved ones' countless appointments. They can’t afford to be the one making their loved one comfortable. There are people who know nobody will care for their loved one like they will, but they have no choice. We will provide relief, financial freedom, life-changing equipment, and all-encompassing accommodations to the families and caretakers supporting those suffering a terminal diagnosis. Spending those last pivotal weeks or months with the people who mean the most to us, shouldn’t cost us more than it already does.

-Morgan Wilson, Founder of Your Helping Hands