What Julie Crawshay Wishes She'd Known at Diagnosis
The day Nic was diagnosed with Glioblastoma, I felt as though the ground had opened beneath us. I remember nodding at doctors while barely absorbing a word, clutching a notebook I was too shaken to write in. If I could reach back and sit beside that frightened version of myself, there are a few things I would want her to know. I share them now, as Julie Crawshay, in the hope they reach another caregiver at the beginning of their own hard road.
You Do Not Have to Understand Everything at Once
In those first weeks I thought I had to become an instant expert on brain cancer, treatment protocols, scan results, every possible outcome. I stayed up late reading things that terrified me and helped no one. I wish someone had told me it was alright to learn slowly, to ask the same question twice, to say I don't understand, can you explain that again.
The medical world moves fast, but you are allowed to move at a human pace. I eventually started bringing a small notebook to every appointment and asking one trusted question: what is the very next step? Focusing on the next step, rather than the whole terrifying horizon, made the impossible feel manageable.
- Ask for information in writing so you can absorb it later, when you are calmer.
- Bring someone with you to appointments to be a second set of ears.
- It is fine to say you need a moment before making a decision.
Accepting Help Is Not Weakness
The lesson that took me longest to learn was this: let people help you. In the early days I insisted I could manage everything myself. I turned down offers of meals, lifts, and company because I did not want to be a burden, and because accepting help made the situation feel more real.
I was wrong, and it cost me. Caregiving is not a solo sport. When I finally let our Sydney community step in, our neighbours, friends, and the wider brain cancer community, everything softened. People genuinely want to help; saying yes gives them a way to love you, and gives you room to breathe.
I also wish I had known how important it is to keep a corner of life that is just mine. At diagnosis I poured every ounce of myself into Nic and left nothing for me. Over time I understood that a depleted caregiver cannot pour from an empty cup, and that tending to my own health was part of caring for him, not a betrayal of it.
Most of all, I wish I had known that joy and grief could share the same day, that we would still laugh, still find beauty, still build good memories in the middle of GBM. The diagnosis did not end our story; it changed its shape.
If you are standing where I once stood, newly told that someone you love has brain cancer, please be gentle with yourself. You will not do this perfectly, and you do not need to. You only need to keep showing up with love, one small step at a time.
— Julie Crawshay, Sydney