Biopsies and Chicken Tenders
Caregiving, community, and the strange (chicken) tenderness of Planet Cancer.
There’s a moment in the hospital that I think about daily. It’s likely a fleeting memory for those involved, but it has stayed with me as a quiet comfort.
Right before my husband’s biopsy, a doctor walked in and, without much preamble, told us he suspected cancer, likely from somewhere else in the body.
I wasn’t prepared for that kind of bluntness, but I kept my composure. I had to—there was too much at stake. But as soon as they wheeled him away, the reality hit me hard. I sat down in the recovery room, waiting, and for the first time since entering the hospital, I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
I broke down. The tears, the overwhelming weight of it all, poured out of me. I wasn’t graceful, I wasn’t in control.
And then suddenly, a girl, probably around my age, sat in the chair next to mine. She, too, was there for a biopsy and also had cancer. She looked over at me and, without hesitation, asked, “Do you want a chicken tender?” Before I could answer, her mom—who had been sitting quietly nearby—came over and hugged me. This moment—quiet, odd, unexpectedly intimate—has stuck with me.
It’s moments like these that shine through on Planet Cancer—these tiny, silver linings that, somehow, make everything a little more bearable. That small act of kindness, a chicken finger, and a hug from a stranger, felt like a lifeline. In the midst of the chaos, there was a connection. A sense that, somehow, even in this foreign and frightening world, I wasn’t completely alone.
Since that day, I’ve found myself connecting with other caregivers and loved ones navigating similar terrain—many of whom I’ve never met in person. We live in different cities, time zones, stages of treatment, stages of grief. But somehow, that doesn’t matter.
We check in on each other in the quiet hours of the night, when sleep won’t come. We share tips on managing appointments, childcare, panic. We send each other photos of meals we barely had the energy to cook. Of beautiful walks that brought peace. We offer spare bedrooms. Advice. Distraction. Love. We trade grief like postcards, trusting each other to hold the hard things. To hold us.
There’s a shorthand among us—no need to explain the acronyms, the scans, the weight of another “we found something.” There’s just knowing. The kind of knowing that wraps around you and says, you don’t have to carry this alone.
It’s not just the doctors or the nurses who make a difference on Planet Cancer—it’s the people who get it. The ones who remind you, even from miles away, that you are seen, you are held, and you are not alone. The ones who understand that even when it feels like the world is falling apart, there’s someone out there, sitting in a chair next to you, ready to share a chicken finger or a hug. And that, in itself, is a beautiful thing.
I would not have made it without my community… I so glad you feel surrounded in this way.
Awww the 'Chicken Tenderness of it all' YES! BIG side hugs, Tori