![A Terrible Phone Call and What Came Next](https://cdn.shortpixel.ai/stsp/to_webp,q_lossy,ret_img/https://static01.nyt.com/images/2024/01/09/opinion/07french/07french-facebookJumbo.jpg)
Early on the morning of Friday, Nov. 10, my phone rang with terrible news: My wife, Nancy, has a highly aggressive form of breast cancer.
Even as I type these words, I know there are countless readers who know the exact sensation. Either they’ve received a similar diagnosis or they love someone who has. And each of those readers knows the surreal feeling of having your life change instantly. Nancy and I lived in one reality before the phone call and another reality afterward.
It’s like the difference between peace and war. In peacetime, you can dream and plan. True joy may be elusive, but it seems like an attainable goal. In wartime, you dig deep. You fight. And the goal is not joy but survival itself. Peace has its many challenges, but war is emotionally shattering. The fight is so very hard and can feel unending.
Imagine how much harder that fight, any fight, would be if you fought it alone.
But ever since the deep darkness of that November phone call, Nancy and I have experienced countless bursts of light shining through, each one coming through the love and care from other people. My son immediately decided to give up his final quarter of in-person college and take his last classes online, so that he could move across the country back home to help his mom. Our church small group immediately started organizing meals. My friends from college raked our leaves so that I could sit with Nancy in chemotherapy. My fantasy baseball league collected funds for wigs.
And with each act of kindness and expression of concern — including from colleagues here at The Times, who’ve demonstrated remarkable care and compassion — the darkness recedes further. Nothing is easy, and the fear is still real. But there is no comparison between the state of our hearts now and their state when we first received Nancy’s grim news.
The reason for our revival is rooted in a profound truth elegantly captured by an old Swedish proverb: “Shared joy is double joy. Shared sorrow is half sorrow.” I’ve heard that proverb many times. It was the refrain of a men’s prayer group that I belonged to for many years. But I’d never felt its truth so powerfully until November, when our sorrow was so deep and the love of our friends so profound.