Her cancer, his pain

When my wife's breast cancer was diagnosed, it was hard on her. And it was hard on me.

So who had it worse?

That may seem an absurd question, yet I've heard more than a few breast cancer survivors proclaim, "It's harder on my husband than it is on me."

Let me give you my perspective.

In 2001, my wife learned that she had bilateral breast cancer -- a lump in each breast. I tried to be the best caregiver I could be. Being a typical guy, I screwed up. I played the denial game, I cheer-led relentlessly. Eventually, I got the hang of how to help (in a nutshell: Don't try to fix things, just shut up and listen).

And I certainly endured a lot of emotional pain. I remember the nights right after the diagnosis when I'd fall into a heavy sleep and never want to wake up, because waking up meant it was time to jump back into our war on cancer. We were busy fighting our HMO for referrals to "out-of-network" breast cancer specialists. We ran from doctor's office to doctor's office to see how they'd treat the cancer. As days turned into weeks, I often found myself sitting in a waiting room while my wife was undergoing assorted surgeries. I'd watch "The Price Is Right" on the TV mounted high on the wall and wait and wonder what was going to go wrong (or right), and wish it was all as straightforward as guessing the cost of a new tube of toothpaste.

I felt as if I were balancing a plate on one upstretched arm. Upon that plate was piled Marsha's breast cancer diagnosis; a report of suspicious cells that appeared to be a lymphoma, which caused the surgeon to say, "Boy, you guys just can't catch a break;" a big heaping of fear of the unknown, and a practical side dish of worry about whether we could make it financially if Marsha had to take a medical leave from her teaching job. Then there were the usual pressures from my job as an editor and the daunting task of raising two teenage daughters. I was petrified that I was going to drop the plate. I thought I was going to melt down, lose it, collapse in a weeping heap, be unable to function. And to whom could I confide my inner panic? If I shared with Marsha, surely I'd be burdening her at a time when she had plenty of burdens to bear.

Selfishness is key

But I didn't drop the plate. As time went by, I learned that my arm -- and spirit -- were stronger than I'd thought. I also realized that selfishness is key in coping. A cancer caregiver isn't on call 24 hours a day. I made time for things I like to do -- and those precious moments helped me cope. With my wife's permission, I went for long jogs and longer bike rides, I lay on the floor in yoga classes and followed a yogi's commands, I spent hours in front of the TV watching silly DVDs. Even work could be a balm. When Marsha was going through chemo, weekends were hellish: She was upstairs in bed, feeling crappy; I was juggling the jobs of caregiver, errand runner and dad. When I'd get to work on Monday, I'd settle into my chair and sigh a sigh of relief. For the next eight hours, I'd be in my office, where I knew what I was doing -- and where I even got an hour off for lunch.

In short, I could escape. And that eased the crush of cancer.

Now, let's consider the toll on Marsha. While I was watching TV in the waiting room, she had two surgical biopsies, then had a cancerous tumor sliced out of each breast. A drain stuck in her armpit caused excruciating pain. She endured countless pokes and pricks. Six chemotherapy sessions caused her hair to fall out and made her feel as if she'd just stepped off the world's craziest roller coaster (and she is a woman who cannot even tolerate a merry-go-round). A port that was implanted in her chest for ease of chemo drug delivery caused a blood clot that made it hard for her to breathe and made her face all puffy from fluid retention. She could barely walk down the hall at the school where she teaches without getting winded. Yet during her five months of chemo, she dragged herself to work just about every day, even though she was often wobbly and weary. Work distracted her, she later told me. At home, she'd just worry about the cancer: Did the surgeon get it all? Would chemo and radiation work their magic?

Or what if they didn't?

Marsha had to face her own mortality, which is a heck of a lot more daunting than what I had to face: the unspoken "what if" that hovers when a loved one receives a cancer diagnosis.

A telling dream

Unlike me, Marsha never really could escape all of these worries, because her body always reminded her of what she was going through.

I could sympathize with her traumas. But I couldn't even begin to imagine the courage it takes to submit to the seemingly endless (and endlessly painful) treatments. I'm not sure I would have been as brave as Marsha. During her chemo months, I had a dream in which I had to have a chemotherapy infusion. I was a total chicken. I wouldn't let them stick that needle in my veins. I awoke in a cold sweat.

But it was just a dream.

So harder on me than Marsha? I think not.

Of course, every cancer survivor has the right to make her own decisions about degree of suffering. But why downgrade your own suffering? I asked Hester Hill Schnipper, an oncology social worker and cancer survivor, for her take. "I think it is the same reason many women take the smallest piece of cake," she told me. "It's hard to put themselves first." Perhaps this "harder on him" stance is also a way of asserting inner strength: "I know I will survive, but my poor husband is a wreck." I'd like to point out that this kind of mind-set can backfire. If the husband truly believes that his wife is handling her cancer with ease, he might go about business as usual. As a result, she might find herself thinking, "He doesn't really care about what I'm going through."

As for my wife, she makes no bones about it: She believes her cancer was hard on me -- but harder on her, then and now. Even seven years after her diagnosis, she carries all sorts of scars: dents in each breast, fingernails that break more easily and the notorious chemo brain. She's sure she has it: a diminished ability to juggle many tasks and details.

I once trudged on a 30-plus mile cancer walkathon, partly to get an inkling of Marsha's cancer ordeal. Afterward, nursing my blisters, I asked her if I could ever really understand what she went through. She smiled the wary smile of those who have endured a lot and simply said, "There's just no way."

Marc Silver is an editor at National Geographic magazine and author of "Breast Cancer Husband: How to Help Your Wife (and Yourself) Through Diagnosis, Treatment, and Beyond."