What NOT to say to someone dealing with cancer...

While Thanksgiving and the "holiday season" may incite visions of sugarplums and gifts, this time of year ALWAYS reminds me of chemo treatments and hair loss. They are inextricably linked, never to be separated again. And that's okay - it reminds me to think of how much I DO have now, and how thankful I am that a. I was lucky enough to be cured and b. am pretty darn healthy now. But it does prompt me to think of that time, and being that I thought I might see someone in our peripheral world who is dealing with it right now I was thinking of the right thing to say to them. It's hard - you want to seem supportive of them without being glib or trite. I know that people (usually) have the best intentions, but here's a little do and don't list that seemed true to me. That's not to say that what I'm spouting here might be true for everyone - everyone deals with cancer differently.

DON'T SAY

"How are you feeling?" Because honestly, we probably feel like crap from the chemo, the side effects and the drugs to combat the side effects. Even if we don't physically feel like crap, emotionally it's not a fun place to be. Once I got really annoyed at the umpteenth person who asked and I responded, "Well, fine, other than the blinding foot cramps, the bone pain, the hemorrhoids, the pain from losing my hair, the hot flashes (from the drugs used to protect my ovaries/eggs), the mood swings, and the insatiable hunger from the steroids. Glad you asked?"

"Wow, you don't look sick!" While you may think this is a compliment, I always felt like, "Okay, should I look worse? Do you not believe I am deathly ill? Would you like my last blood count?" It can make someone feel pretty awful that they're feeling like crap inside and having awful (non visual) side effects - that statement kind of invalidates their feelings. INSTEAD....feel free to say, "Wow, you look great!" And elaborate: "You have so much color in your cheeks/Your eyes are sparkling" because quite honestly, it would have been nice to hear that when I had lost all my hair and had a puffy steroid moon face.

"Let me know what I can do to help" or "Let me know if you need anything" Really? I'm supposed to ask you to do my laundry or clean my house? I'm already feeling demoralized and marginalized. I can't take care of my own home and you think I'm in a place where I feel comfortable asking for help? Not to mention, I've got enough on my plate with doctor visits and medications without having to make a list of chores for someone. INSTEAD.......say, "I bought you a gift certificate to have your laundry done." or "I'm having your house cleaned for you" or "I made your favorite dish and it can go right in the freezer so you don't have to think about cooking." or "Here are gift cards so you don't have to worry about cooking". Don't ask. Just do. It will show that you REALLY do want to help. If you don't have the money or time to do that, just send a card. With a happy note or a scratch off.

"My uncle/cousin/brother/co-worker/etc. had cancer and this is what happened....." No. I didn't want to hear about someone else's experience second-hand. Nine times out of ten it was a different kind of cancer and I just didn't care. Sorry. I was concerned about me at the time. Unless the person had the SAME EXACT type of cancer and could give me tips on how to combat the nasty taste chemo would give me or some other helpful fact I really didn't want to hear about it. You never know what the person is dealing with medically.

"This will make you so much stronger." Um, I thought I was a pretty tough cookie before cancer. Yes,  I am a hard-core bad-ass now, but I didn't need some trial to make me stronger. Nor did I need it to bring my family together or strengthen the relationships in my life.

Any minor complaints about anything. No. This is a get-out-of-jail-free time for the person. You do not get to complain about ANYTHING to someone who is battling cancer UNLESS THEY ASK YOU TO. I had gone to a rehearsal and there was an individual whining about their shoulder hurting. Let's say I didn't handle the situation as well as I should.

THINGS I LIKED HEARING OR WOULDN'T HAVE MINDED HEARING:

"This really sucks." It did. And when people said that, it made me feel a bit of camaraderie.

"I'm sorry you're dealing with this." Again, it was nice that someone would acknowledge that it was unfair and rotten.

"Let's go have a cup of coffee and forget about everything and talk about stupid celebrities for a while." I loved escaping the yuckiness. Even if it was just for an hour. I liked feeling human again. In fact, I STILL like this - who wouldn't? :)

"I made a donation in your name to the (insert EXACT type of cancer person has) foundation" It made me feel like my fight meant something and incited a positive reaction.

"I had cancer and I survived." This made me feel amazing. I LOVED (and still do so very much) meeting fellow survivors. Of any cancer. Because no one knows how it feels unless you've gone through it. It's a horrible, rotten club, but one I'm proud to be a part of.

"I'm proud of you." or "You are an inspiration." My family said this a lot. It always made me feel like I was doing a good job of getting better. Which sounds kind of lame, but that was my job at the time. When you're sick, you feel like you can't do anything. You are probably tired and lethargic or feeling crummy.

While this is not an exhaustive list, it's still a start. I'd love to hear if someone was told something that really bothered them when they were sick or were tired of hearing or if someone said something really awesome to them.

Down Memory Lane

I took the long way to the oncologist this morning. Meandered down Jericho Turnpike to 347. Which meant I passed the following:

-The general practitioner's office where I went countless times during the summer of 2004 complaining of a cough that wouldn't go away, which then gave way to fevers, night sweats....
- The pulmonologist's office where I was told, "That isn't pneumonia" after another chest x-ray, and "you need a CT scan tomorrow". Where I was also told, "Well, whatever it is is treatable and curable" which made me much less fearful of what was waiting for me down the pike. What he saw on the CT scan was so bad that he didn't even charge us a co-pay for that visit.
- The thoracic surgeon's office, where we talked about possible surgery and later talked about a port install. It took me forever to remember how to pronounce Dr. Mohedrin's name.
- The now-vacant site for J&R's Steakhouse where I had my first real meal that tasted divine after months of not tasting food and not being hungry. What sticks in my mind most about that is a beautiful country breakfast (eggs, super thick bacon, biscuits, and potatoes) placed in front of me and just not even seeing food. Ironically these days I'm a (mostly) vegetarian. Mostly.

Then once in the building, I walk by the entrance to the "infusion center" where I spent nearly two (non consecutive) weeks having chemo drugs pumped into my system. I remember so much about those days - tucked under a blanket, PICC-lined arm hanging out to be monitored. I remember that no matter what, I insisted on wearing at least an "ensemble" of comfy clothes and always the brown sweater - big enough for my swollen and tube-plagued left arm- which to this day is comforting and cozy. I remember lots of chicken cutlets and barbecue potato chips (which I now can't even look at). I remember that they called the giant red syringe of adriamycin the "hair killer" and when giving me the (relatively) small syringe of vincristine saying, "here's the one from the beautiful flower!" (Which may be a contender for a future tattoo...just sayin'.)

I walk by the exam room where I withstood a bone marrow biopsy. (Dr. Berger says, "Okay, we're going to do a bone marrow biopsy to make sure it hasn't spread there." Me: "Don't we need to be in a hospital for something like that?" He just smiled.) I walk by the room where at my very last visit with Dr. Berger he met Lucas - just 3 months old and snug in a little carrier.

The exams these days are more of a visit with an old friend than a reassurance that the cancer isn't back. Julie and I share pictures of the kids (born 10 days apart!), talk about theatre and what shows are playing to take the kids to. Oh, and by the way, you're still healthy. I feel more like a visitor than a resident to Belle Meade Road. And that's fine with me.

Life is what happens....

I used to think that that song lyric was just clever. Ha ha, it certainly does John ole boy. And then life happened to me: cancer, divorce, grad school too late, etc., etc.

I was sent this article on companies paying for women to freeze their eggs so they can be productive employees and not worry about something like, oh, reproducing mucking up their career.  I'm horrified. I'm creeped out. I don't know if I have a "career" per say, where I'm climbing up the ladder of greater success, but I'm trying to eek out something for myself now that I've found where I want to be. And yes, the thought that I want to get home at a reasonable time each night so I can do homework with Luke, and read to him and actually mother him and enjoy him is present in my thoughts. That leads me to wonder, is this my problem? That I don't want to work until 8pm every night and don't want to work weekends? Or is it a problem with American society? Am I lazy that I don't want that job? That I feel a job should entail 9-5 duties (or 8-4) and not overwork employees so they can enjoy some work/life balance?

And about freezing eggs. These companies make it sound like a pedicure. It's not easy. It's not simple. And it's certainly not fool-proof. When preparing to enter the world of chemo, I was advised to freeze some eggs as we didn't know what state my body would be in when we ended chemo. We had some (but not a clear picture) of how my cancer would react to chemo. Would we need more chemo? Even stronger chemo? (I had a pretty powerful cocktail) I called my insurance company and was given a litany of egg-freezing/harvesting procedures that would be covered and to what extent. This, on TOP of trying to navigate a new world of oncological treatment and all that new vocabulary (white counts! red counts! R-CHOP, drugs upon drugs!). And....not to mention I needed to start chemo, like yesterday. Luckily, my amazing life-saving oncologist put me on Lupron shots to put me into a chemical menopause. (Which was about as fun as it sounds.) It chemically froze my ovaries and protected the eggs. And it worked. Lucas is nothing short of a miracle, a fact that hits me every day. Which makes it a million times harder to say okay to a 50/50 parenting agreement and not have that little miracle sleep under my roof every night.My body went through all that and still produced a miraculous little boy and I have to give him up half the time?

Cancer. The gift that keeps on giving.