When Hope and Reality Collide
The pain of losing someone to cancer is a feeling I know all too well. It’s a loss that touches many of us in this community—whether we are patients ourselves, caregivers, family members, or friends. Cancer has a way of bringing people together, but it also leaves behind a kind of grief that never fully fades. No matter how familiar it becomes, losing someone is never easy.
This past summer, I made a friend who was walking a path remarkably similar to my own. His name was Eric. Like me, he was originally diagnosed in 2012, experienced more than ten years of remission, and then faced a recurrence last summer—almost at the same time I did. His cancer was osteosarcoma, a form of sarcoma that affects the bone.
Eric and I connected quickly. We shared a deep curiosity about treatment options beyond the conventional path and spent time comparing experiences within the Pacific Northwest medical system. Our meeting was completely unplanned. I overheard him speaking with a receptionist who said, “I think you’re one of the two sarcoma patients we have.” I was standing just behind him, waiting to check in.
Later, as we both left the building, I saw him again in the hospital lobby. I introduced myself and shared that I was also living with sarcoma. We talked briefly, exchanged numbers, and met for lunch the following week. That simple moment of connection turned into something meaningful.
What struck me most was how similar our journeys had been—the same conversations with doctors, the same frustrations, the same hopes. In a world where cancer can feel isolating, finding someone who truly understands can be incredibly grounding. Eric became that for me.
Late last night, I learned from his wife that Eric passed away last Friday. The news stunned me. We had been in regular contact, especially as he pursued an alternative treatment in South America. I had no sense that this was coming, and the sadness has been heavy.
Eric was deeply determined and hopeful. He believed there was still a path forward. Like me, he had been labeled “terminal,” a word neither of us felt truly defined us. Our friendship helped ease the loneliness that often comes with this diagnosis. We shared research, encouraged one another, and sometimes talked about nothing more than what we were watching on TV. Those ordinary conversations mattered more than I can express.
Learning of his passing has been a sobering reminder of the reality we live with. No matter how much effort, determination, or faith we bring to this fight, outcomes are not always in our control. That truth is painful—but it doesn’t erase the value of hope.
I don’t say this selfishly, but his loss also brings reflection. There was a time not long ago when I believed my own time might be short. I thought last Christmas could be my last. I wondered if I would see another birthday. Since the spring, things have improved significantly, and I no longer live in that same fear. Still, moments like this remind me how precious and uncertain life can be.
At Living With Hope, we hold space for both grief and belief. We honor those we lose, and we continue to hope—not because the path is guaranteed, but because hope gives meaning, strength, and connection along the way.
My thoughts, prayers, and love are with Eric’s family. I am grateful our paths crossed, even briefly. His life mattered. His hope mattered. And his memory will stay with me as I continue this journey—living with hope.
