Did You Really Say That?

Finding out that you have been diagnosed with cancer is a traumatic event. It is difficult to process and takes a while to get used to the fact that you are definitely not immortal. While trying to get used to all aspects of what having cancer really means, you are still around people that are just becoming aware of your newly born fate. I kept my diagnosis quiet for at least six months. Only family knew. My colleagues did not have a clue that I was actually going through chemotherapy and continuing to work. I only took two days off to save my stem cells. I made it work. Part of my rationale for not telling folks was that I knew I would hear the spectrum of comments from saying nothing to the absurd.

Therefore, here are a few things that you may never want to say to a cancer patient:

Is it a bad cancer?

Really? Is there a good cancer? A lesser type of cancer? What answer do you think these people expect? Is there a sliding scale of good to bad? I would just like to say; yes, it is really bad and incurable just to see their reaction. It would be great to get a Polaroid of this interaction, and then mail it to them so they have a souvenir of a life lesson!

My mom, dad, Aunt Thelma, and or our dog died from cancer. It runs in our family.

Really? No need to assimilate here. At least they could have said, they were all survivors. I really think it is fun to think that I might die like the rest of your family.

I know how you feel.

Hmm, you do. Have you sat in a sterile room while a perfect stranger tells you that your life is about to implode? Have you sat astounded when you heard those horrible words, you have cancer? Have you thought about how you will tell your kids? Unless you have or had cancer, NOT!

Is it curable? What is your prognosis?

Well I have an incurable cancer, but how do you say that to someone that is so curious to hear how the rest of your life is going to go? I have no idea how this is going to end up. I would like to make something up that would make them speechless. Like maybe, “well they say if I can survive all of the treatments for the next five years, and learn to stand on my head five days a week and drink chemo from a straw, I might have a chance.

Will you lose your hair?

Wow, my life has been turned upside down and you want to know if my hair will be gone. Spectacular! Are you asking since you may want to buy me a wig, scarf, or a turban? Will you treat me to a fabulous set of mink eyelashes? Would you be willing to shave your head in solidarity? Doubtful.

Everything will be fine.

You must be psychic! Congratulations. Define Fine please. I bet you say this to everyone who has issues. Maybe you are just an optimist and cannot help yourself. Either way, can I borrow your crystal ball? Mine is in the shop.

You do not look sick!

Clearly, this is one of my favorites. Since I have multiple myeloma, and did not lose my hair, people actually say this all of the time when first seeing you after they have heard of your diagnosis. My response is that I have the only cancer where I will not lose weight or my hair. I gained forty-seven pounds from the steroids. My neighbor heard me say this and she said,” well you don’t look sick, and you gained weight. You are just the fat girl now!” I am not sure what people expect. Maybe they think I should be bald, sallow skin, sunken in eyes, dragging my sorry ass around on a scooter. Sorry to disappoint!

God never gives you more than you can handle.

Is that right? Have you spoken to him lately? Did you zoom with him today? Did he announce my future? How do you know how much I can handle? People fall apart all of the time. That is why we have psychiatrists. Should I call you when I cannot handle treatments or I cannot get out of bed due to complete exhaustion? On the other hand, maybe call you at 2 am when my insomnia from the steroids kicks in and I am catching up on my binge watching Netflix. Could you please call him and let him know I would like to have less to handle?

Let me know what I can do.

This is the classic line and my all-time favorite. How about you don’t say that and just actually do something. What should my response be to this? I would love to pull out a long list on paper and start reciting things like:

Here is my grocery list, and no, I don’t eat all organic like people are telling me to. Here is my rewards card. Make sure I get my fuel perks.

The laundry is ready to be done. Make sure you separate the colors and whites.

I would really like dinner delivered for the next few weeks. Make sure it is delivered hot. Not a fan of Mexican. No current food allergies.

Can you walk my dog twice a day?

Fresh flowers would be great weekly. No carnations please …

The point to all of this is to just be conscious of how people feel with a newly diagnosed disease that has turned their entire families’ lives upside down. Be sympathetic without wallowing. Be upbeat without seeming as if you are speaking to a child that just skinned their knee. Let people know that you are speechless or not sure what to say. Then go home. Send a card in the mail. Yes, a card. You do remember what stamps look like? I have all of the cards I have received in my office to remind me how many people do care. Better yet, make a nice dinner for the patient and spouse, kids, if they are there as well. Drop it off and let them know you could be available to do to other chores. Do not be afraid. I am not going to ask you to clean my toilets. Give them your number and say you will check in with them later on in the week to see what needs to be done. Chances are they will never take you up on the offer, but the fact that you actually checked in, is meaningful.

As usual, I look forward to hearing from all of you. Until then, find something funny to talk about and share.

Best,
Cathy