In 2017, when I was diagnosed for the first time with lymphoma, I wrote a frustrated piece about how the words we use to speak about cancer can significantly hinder one’s experience of healing.
Now, with the effects of cancer treatment staring me squarely – and much more threateningly – in the face, I wanted to revisit that article and share some of what I’ve learned in the ensuing eight years.
The single biggest issue I have (as do many others, I presume) is the personification of the interlocution.
What I mean is that nearly every conversation – be it in person, via WhatsApp, or other types of Internet communication – is not really about me. It’s about consoling you. That’s not to say you’re doing this for any nefarious purpose. Perhaps when confronted with something truly terrifying – “my good friend might die” – you simply want to let that person know you care.
But it always starts with “I.”
• “I feel so bad.”
• “I know you’ll get better soon.”
• “I hope this is just a blip, and we’ll have many more trips and tiyulim together.”
• “What’s your Hebrew name? I want to pray for you.”
It’s so – and I hesitate to point fingers and label anyone this way because it applies to good friends as well – so very narcissistic. And it puts the onus on the side of the sick person to essentially comfort the comforter.
• “I don’t feel that bad, really.”
• “Of course, I’ll be getting better soon.”
• “I’m still looking forward to that family trip to the fjords we have planned for this summer!”
• “You want to pray for me? Knock yourself out (even though I’m convinced it won’t do a thing).”
If I don’t get better, on what or whom can we blame?
Underlying the message is the ultimate caveat: If I don’t get better, on what or whom can we blame my demise? Not having the right attitude? My essay from January 10 on “Cancer is not a battle” addresses how our choice of words can inadvertently weaponize the experience in a way that may also end in defeat.
Speaking to someone with cancer comes with all sorts of new challenges. Asking something as innocuous as “How are you?” becomes a loaded question even when the intention was to be a breezy placeholder for a longer conversation to be held later.
Should the person suffering from cancer respond by kindly cocking his or her head to deflect such an unbidden and upsetting chat? Or do you play along by inserting a cheerful sidebar, leading inevitably to the follow-up: “Tell me all about it!”
How can you suss out where the person in front of you is holding regarding whether the time is right to initiate a more substantial dialogue?
THERE’S MORE background to my sacred screed, and it involves an argument my wife, Jody, and I have been having for years. When I don’t feel well – whether that’s from too much pain or being overwhelmed by emotions – I have little room left in my brain to “see” Jody, to understand and acknowledge what she needs.
To my horror, I become that same narcissistic id that I berate others for lobbing my way – and yet I do the same, seemingly without compunction.
It can be over something small – the air conditioner is too cold, it’s too hot – or something big – with whom would I be comfortable having sleep over in my hospital room? Jody, of course, but she would quickly burn out without a break.
I rage and I vent, but eventually I “see” Jody enough, and we come to a compromise. That’s who we are and always have been as a couple.
But then it occurred to me – I’m not being seen or heard, either. That’s not to say Jody doesn’t perceive how much I’m suffering, how each cough is like a dagger stabbing into my rib cage (necessitating more of my new best friend, fast-acting Oxycodone syrup). But if I’m being honest, I want her to internalize the full experience of my being in pain; what feeling discomfort strong enough to send you to the ER at midnight is like, and what that would feel like if it continued for six months with nary a break.
Naturally, I don’t want Jody or anyone else to go through such pain (just as I’m happy never having birthed three babies). But when you say, “You’re going to get better,” it makes me wonder if you don’t “see” or “hear” or “experience” me, but what you really want is to get away from my presence as quickly as possible, lest my contagion of misery prove truly catching.
In 2018, in my first round of chemotherapy, I wrote on one of my least religious days, “Instead of praying for me, the next time you’re walking down the street, smile at someone you don’t know or just say hello to a stranger. And when you do, please think of me.”
That sentiment still sticks. But let me update that with a new credo for 2025 that encapsulates what I’d like to hear now and that might indicate you do, in fact, see me:
“It sucks. It just plain sucks.”
The writer’s book TOTALED: The Billion-Dollar Crash of the Startup that Took on Big Auto, Big Oil and the World has been published as an audiobook. Available on Amazon and other online booksellers. brianblum.com