Echoes of Pain: Two Generations, One Cancer

A reader’s story | Cancer Awareness

Disclaimer: This story was shared by one of our readers, anonymized and lightly edited for privacy and clarity. It discusses lung cancer, loss, and end-of-life pain and may be distressing. It is not medical advice. Medical information is for basic educational purposes only.

Around 1988, my grandfather was being taken in and out of hospital, from one doctor to another. He had respiratory problems, but nobody seemed to know exactly what was wrong. In the 1980s, they treated him for tuberculosis, bronchitis, dust-related complications, and almost everything else they could think of except the disease that was slowly taking his life. He moved from one hospital to another without lasting improvement. Eventually, doctors discovered that he had advanced lung cancer, which they linked to his excessive smoking.

By then it had spread all over his lungs. "Had it been diagnosed in time," the doctors kept saying. That phrase still rings in my ears. But how could it be diagnosed in time, in the 80's? They tried everything applicable. To no avail. My grandfather was dying slowly and painfully. He passed on while my grandma and I were holding him, assisting him to the restroom. That is where he took his last breath. In our arms.

We buried him and thought that pain was over. The memories were something we never wanted to revisit.Not until... Decades later my father succumbed in 2023 to the same ailment. Same bloodline. Same cough. Same shadow. Only this time it was not the 80's. It felt like the cancer man had come to collect a debt owed for years on end. We had hospitals. We had Google. We had oxygen machines his sister bought one that kept him alive longer. We had chemo, we had Cocodamol and Diclofenac.

More awareness was now being raised. It could be talked about openly and discussions were no longer as sacred as back then when I had my first encounter in 1988. But what we didn't have was early action. My father suffered in silence for a long time. Men do that. He hid his pain to protect us. With my father, it was a case of being misdiagnosed at first and given the wrong prescription until persistent coughing forced us to seek further help.

They finally said lung cancer also smoking-related, almost Stage 4. We would hurry him to hospital, "vakutadza kufema" (failing to breathe). "Kuita mweya wekutsvaga" (gasping for every ounce of breath). For almost 5 years he lived with that great pain. He underwent chemotherapy, an account he was candid about. "Very painful therapy," he said.

He died in 2023. Not in the 80s. In 2023, when we had the machines, the drugs, the information. But we still came late. Two men. One in the 80s, one in 2023. Father and son. Same lungs, same disease, same ending. Briefly, what is lung cancer? Lung cancer happens when abnormal cells in the lungs grow out of control. Smoking is the biggest risk factor, but it can also affect non-smokers and those exposed to second-hand smoke.

Early on, it may have no symptoms, or just a persistent cough, breathlessness, chest pain, or weight loss. Because it is silent at first, many are diagnosed late. That is why screening matters. In parting, my father held my hand, breathing heavily.

In his final days, my father held my hand, breathing heavily. He had endured so much. His body was tired, and his struggle to breathe had become a painful reminder of how much the disease had taken from him. Then he asked me to do something with his suffering.

“My son, don’t let my pain be silent. Tell people.”

Those words have stayed with me.

Tell people not to wait until a cough becomes unbearable. Tell them not to dismiss persistent symptoms or assume that enduring pain is a sign of strength. Tell them to seek medical attention and keep asking questions when treatment does not seem to be helping.

And tell them that cancer is not a conversation we should have only when awareness campaigns appear on our calendars. If one more person seeks medical attention because they read this story, then perhaps my grandfather’s suffering in the 1980s and my father’s suffering in 2023 will help another family act sooner.

I am grateful for cancer-awareness programmes and the people who keep these conversations alive. But we cannot afford to talk about cancer for just one week a year. Cancer does not wait for awareness week. Let these echoes of pain become echoes of action.

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Lung cancer awareness in Zimbabwe