You're going to be fine, just fine...

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The subject of how others relate to us after our diagnosis is a recurring topic on my bcmets list for women with Stage IV breast cancer. Many women report losing friends, even best friends, very suddenly upon being diagnosed, presumably because those people simply can no longer handle the friendship, whether out of fear, or because they find it depressing, or because the woman with breast cancer can no longer be a companion in the fun things they like to do. Many say really inconsiderate things, or act like nothing is wrong; some imply that it's not as bad as you're making it out to be. Lynn wrote yesterday:

"Well, what are people expected to say? What would sound best? When I feel touchy about a topic, it seems it's a no-win situation for friends and acquaintances. Can we agree on a list of phrases that aren't offensive?"

I sent a reply to the list saying that I sometimes deal with the issue by saying to people, look, I know it's hard to know what to say. I just want you to feel comfortable talking about whatever you want to talk about. Anything people ask honestly, and out of love or friendship, I take in the spirit it was intended. As I said before, I do find it irritating when they start chirping about miracles; "they do happen, and why not to you?" (I had written in a previous email to this list that when people start talking about miracles, I've started to say you're right, miracles do happen, and I'm not giving up, but the odds are still 200 to one.) I know most people are just trying to find something positive to say. I'm usually the one who changes the subject and says, so how's your new job? how're the kids? But sometimes I wish I could just hand something like this to people:

Hello there, friend! Long time no see! Yes, I'm still May, and I still have incurable cancer, even though I "look so good" and have done so well so far! I just want to let you know that it's okay just to say, how are you doing these days? and to respond to my questions about your own life--even with (god forbid) complaints of a minor nature. If you forget that my problems are probably equally as difficult as yours and bitch too much, you don't suddenly have to gasp, blanch and stammer, oh, my god, I'm so sorry, my problems are nothing like...etc.

It really is okay to use the word "cancer" (there, there, no hyperventilating, now), and if I tell you things that imply that I might be getting closer to succumbing to this disease, it's not necessary for you to deny it. If--and only if--you want to, you can ask if there's anything you can do for me, or tell me to call if I'd just like to talk. I would prefer to hear neither about Lance Armstrong nor about your brother's wife's aunt, who died an agonizing death over a period of six weeks (never mind that that was in 1941, when palliative care was non-existent). You can talk about your vacations and things, just don't go on and on about how you've planned to visit a different European/Asian/South American/African country each year after your husband takes early retirement next year at age 52.

The last thing I want to hear is about really strange cures, such as a witch doctor pouring a strange liquid over your uncle's head in a remote village in Central America, and thereupon seeing his brain tumor rise into the skies in a puff of smoke, or an online prayer chain that saved the life of some adorable child in remote Appalachia. I don't want to hear about noni juice, colloidal silver, Essiac, or the miracle cure the government is hiding from the public, either. Offer me a Starbucks coffee instead.

May
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