Dear Friend, Caregiver, and Perfect Stranger,

Here is your public service announcement. 

If your loved one has cancer, they are going through a harrowing rollercoaster ride, without knowing how much track is still ahead of them. Around every chaotic turn or 90 degree hill dive, the rickety, unstable track may unexpectedly break and they may plunge into the darkness of infinity. They feel it. They know it. So buckle up, buttercup, it’s going to be a bumpy ride. 

The unpredictability of a cancer journey leads to fear, anger, frustration, guilt… and therefore A LOT of outbursts. So please do not take things personally if your loved one screams at you for showing up early or rolls their eyes at you for trying to cheer them up or insults you for always being so put together. Cancer patients can cut you and criticize you and then completely regret it in the very next moment. 

If you try to comfort your loved one with a simple sentence and find your head being bitten off, it’s because there is little you can actually say that will land well. Sometimes silence and a simple hug are golden.

But just in case you’re interested in what goes on in a cancer patient’s head when someone is trying to comfort them, we’ve put together this list of 10 things you may want to avoid saying to someone with cancer.

1. “You look GREAT in a wig!”
   

   Thanks, I guess. Have you ever tried wearing a wig?  They are all hot and itchy and irritating, regardless of the weather. Most of the time, they give me headaches. Truth is, I feel like a fraud in them, and know that they do not look real. Especially since my eyebrows and lashes are also missing. I would go out with my bald head but do not want to upset my children or get stares in public. Yes, that still happens. Some people just suck. Not you. Just some people.
   
   

2. “My friend had cancer and is now totally good.”
   

   Well, good for your friend. She got lucky. I hope I do too. But I know plenty of wonderful, kind, life-loving people who don’t get as lucky. I see them at the cancer center one week, and the next week…I don’t.




3. “This is part of God’s plan.”
   

   Whose God? Yours or mine? Because I do not understand why the God I know and love would put me through this brutal experience…have me go through 3 months of chemo, 6 weeks of radiation, 3 clinical trials, 15 surgeries and counting. I don’t think that my God would casually send me into early menopause, force me into bankruptcy, or have my parents mortgage their home to pay for my medical bills.Oh but maybe you meant that it’s part of God’s plan that my fingernails and teeth crumble as well as my career for that matter?
   No, my friend. Life just sometimes sucks…it’s not always fair. And it’s not always part of some grand plan. Actually, I do pray to God all the time. I pray to God, the universe, all the Buddha’s in my neighbor’s yard and the baby Jesus figurines in my mother’s home to get me out of this mess. Whatever helps, right?!




4. “You don’t look sick.”
   

   Thank you??? I’m trying to put on an “I feel ok” face to help you feel ok with my disease. When truthfully, I feel rotten on the inside. I have no appetite. Everything I put in my mouth tastes like metal.  It took me half an hour to put this outfit on my body and another half an hour to put this smile on my face.

   The next time I need to take my 18 daily pills or go running to the bathroom to vomit, I’ll be sure to bring you along so that you can see how sick I really am. Also, feel free to join me for my next infusion session to watch them pump poison into my veins for 8 hours. It’s next Friday. Should I send you an invite?

   Better yet, grab that Neulasta syringe from the kitchen table and jab it into my thigh…it’ll help with my bone pain. Yeah…bone pain!




5. “I’m sure you’ll learn a lot from this experience.”
   

   Learn a lot from this experience? Dude, really?! I would gladly repeat my angsty middle school years or my hormonal high school years or my thorny college years all over again NOT go through this particular learning experience. But since you’ve put it out there as some great teacher, here’s what I’ve learned from cancer so far:
   It’s undiscriminating and irrational. It can crumble the strongest to their knees. It does not spare the richest amongst us…or the kindest…or the most talented.  It can make children lose their parents prematurely and horrifically, and even worse, vice versa. To witness someone you love battle for their mortality can be gruesome. It forces us to learn about pain…every kind of pain imaginable, all at once. It leaves our bodies broken and our hopes in jeopardy.  It deposits hollow wells of sadness into the hearts of our families and unanswered questions into their minds. It leaves wounds and traumas that last lifetimes and turn into family folklore. So listen, Brother, I’ll exchange “all the learnings from this experience” for a few more years on this earth. Deal?




6. “You’ll be fine.”
   

   Fine. But how do you know I’ll be fine? And what is “fine” exactly anyway? How can you promise me that I’ll be fine after all that I’m going through? And how can you say it so callously? How will I be fine after the doctors delivering bad news give me only a handful of even worse options? How will I be fine after body parts are amputated in an effort to save me? How will I be fine after I quit my daily life to spend more time with people in scrubs and less time with my own husband?

   You do not move from cancer to “fine” in one short, straight line. Nope. There is an entire ecosystem of feelings and emotions to sort through, untether, and try to make sense of. And sometimes you just cannot get to fine. And that’s alright.

   But since you’re so confident, can I please borrow that crystal ball of yours and tell my children that I will be fine in all certainty? I sure hope that I will be, but until I am, stop telling me I’ll be F.I.N.E!!!




7. “Do you know what caused this?”
   

   Oh sure. Yes, of course I know exactly what caused my cancer. It was all that ice cream I ate late at night and the birth control pills I took in my twenties. It was also the stress from the horrible years I spent in my volatile marriage. Or it could be because I kissed too many boys as a teenager or had too many all-nighters studying for exams.

   Could also be from the bottles and bottles of wine I consumed with clients over business dinners or smelling too many magic markers as a kid. I may have accidentally drank too much ocean water and used toxic nail polish. Yep, that’s what caused it…those damn black markers that I used to sniff in class.
   Any other questions, you a$$h@le?




8. “You’re so brave.”
   

   Oh, man! I’m not brave. I’m actually really scared. Scared of the needles. Scared of waiting for scan results. Scared of the big words and unfavorable statistics. Scared of telling my mother about my diagnosis. Scared of the side effects from the treatment. Scared of the rumors. Scared that I’ll become replaced at work. Scared of the looks of pity which make me feel like I’m dying. Scared that my wife will leave me. Scared that my children will not remember me when I’m gone or forgive me for leaving them too soon. Scared of death. Scared that there is no Heaven or that if there is, that I don’t deserve to go there.
   Please do not assume that I am brave. I. AM. TERRIFIED.




9. “Just think about all the things you don’t have to do anymore”:
   

   Like what? Walking the dogs? Changing the tires on my car? Making dinner for my family? Cleaning the house? Going to work? Doing the laundry? Getting up early? Cutting the lawn? Taking out the trash?

   Well, I’ll tell you what…I don’t look at those things as chores or inconveniences. I look at them as life. And believe me…if I did have the energy to do “all the things I don’t have to do anymore,” I would do them – gladly!




10. “You’ll be back to normal soon.”
    

    Are you saying that one day this will all be a distant memory? Or a bad dream that I can wake up from? That’s lovely. Maybe for you it will be. But how can I ever be normal again after this living nightmare which has left me with all of these scars on my body, reminding me of every prick, cut, infusion, and surgery? “Normal” evaporates pretty quickly and sometimes fades into oblivion when you go through the bootcamp of cancer treatment. “Normal” is checked at the door every time you walk in for therapy or a scan or anytime someone needs to help you brush your teeth or tie your shoes.

    How will I ever be normal with the memories in my mind of the people who suffered through this with me, by my side…what they went through…what they sacrificed for me? They were dragged through the mud and the depths of despair simply for loving me. None of that was normal.

    No Sir, you are forever changed by a cancer experience, regardless if you are the patient or caregiver. I know I will find a new path for myself…a different life. But there is nothing resembling my “former normal” for me in my future.

    My body, my heart, my family, and my life have been shattered by this experience.. So thanks for the kind words. Now, bless your heart and please fuck off!
    
    BONUS:
    

    “Why are you so angry?”
    

    Is that a serious question? I am angry because I am scared. I am scared because I feel unsafe. I feel unsafe because I have this disease ravaging my body and threatening my mere existence.

    I am angry because the plans I had for tomorrow, next week, next year, when I’m retired have now been threatened. My dreams have been placed on the shelf with the declaration of three little words, “You have cancer.”

    I’m angry that I may not be around to watch my son get married or that I won’t have the chance to visit my aging parents. I’m angry because I may never ride a horse again or because I will not be able to put my grand-daughter’s hair in pigtails when her hair finally grows out.

    There are too many reasons to list, but I am SO angry. Angry at myself. Angry at others. Angry at the world.
    Truly, I am angry because it’s too soon. I still have so much to do. I want to live and I regret wasting time when I thought I had plenty of it to spare.