How to talk to People with Cancer
The dictionary defines the word awkward as causing or feeling embarrassment or inconvenience; hard to deal with; requiring skill or tact.
One thing I was concerned about when I was diagnosed with cancer was that people wouldn’t know how to talk to me.
Ty and I sat in the car together and cried in the parking lot of my doctor’s office after we heard the words: You have cancer. There were so many big things to be afraid of, but I also remember sobbing out loud: People won’t know how to talk to me. (Read more about that black letter day here if you missed it).
It could seem like that was an insignificant concern at the time, but as I’ve walked this journey, I’ve become keenly aware that there is a universal component of relational awkwardness involved. What I’ve found though, is that the discomfort has not been on my end. Rather, I feel the unease oozing from the person in front of me, and it always takes me by surprise. It jolts me and I think: Oh yeah, I forgot—this is awkward for people.
Multiple friends have asked me to write on this topic because even the best people feel uncomfortable about what to say and how to say it. The title might have the word Cancer in it, but it could also be How to Talk to People in Pain: a diagnosis, a fresh divorce, the loss of a child or spouse, a traumatic event. Pain and grief come in many forms. While I’m no expert in any of those specific pains, I’ve become fairly adept in this one. I’m pretty sure I’ve learned some basic tools that can help you provide solace to someone in pain.
I should probably call this blog, I’m Here to Relieve You. This is going to be easier than you think:
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Say something
A few years ago, an acquaintance of mine lost her child. Her daughter passed away from an illness. Although it wasn’t a surprise, it was of course deep grief.
Just a day or so after the burial, this woman came into the shop to pick up a specific print. I was the one to hand her the order. My stomach was in a knot. I was paralyzed. I didn’t know what to say, and I failed. I failed immensely. I didn’t say anything. I just handed this woman her order with a soft, knowing smile. I thanked her for the order, and I let her walk out the door.
I still think about this sometimes.
Sigh. I’ve learned from my painful journey: say something. It’s horrible not to.
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Acknowledge the Hardship
Right after I was diagnosed, a perfect stranger came into the studio. She had short, cropped hair. She was younger than me, athletic, adorable. She was carrying a large, weird-looking pillow and a box of chocolates.
She said, “My friend told me about your recent cancer diagnosis. I’m sorry that you have to go through this.”
The pillow, she explained, was for post-surgery. She had just gone through this a year previous and she said it was a real-life-saver. We chatted about her experience for a moment, and then she handed me the chocolates, because “chocolate makes almost everything better.” That’s my kind of girl.
I’ve embraced her simple phrase. I’m so sorry that you are going through this has become my go-to line. It is as appropriate for cancer as it is for divorce, death, loss. When said with authenticity, it covers the gamut.
I think what I like is that it meets me in the pain. It acknowledges the hardship. I appreciate this more than You’re going to be fine or You’ll get through this, or even, You’re so strong, because honestly: you don’t know. I don’t know. You can’t solve my problem with a few upbeat words. Those phrases brush over what I’m dealing with right now.
To be fair: if you’ve said any of those phrases to me, I promise I don’t remember. And I wasn’t offended. I’m just trying to share with you what I learned from being on the other side of the table and what was meaningful to me.
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Write a Note
This one is self-explanatory. If you don’t know what to say, sometimes writing it down can be helpful. Perhaps you have heard the news, but you don’t regularly see the person involved. Write them a note. And then be sure to send it.
I’ve received so many wonderful cards, stationery notes, and even letters. I’ve saved every single one of them. A few of my favorite cards were from people that I never expected to hear from: acquaintances, clients, friends of friends, some people we’ve never even met. Folks have shared encouraging verses, told me that they were sad to hear our news and they were praying for us.
These notes are a physical reminder of community, precious people that we’ve encountered, perhaps even just brushed shoulders with, that keep us in their hearts and minds. There is a sweetness to these mementos that I cannot fully describe, but that I treasure and will continue to.
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Stay in It
At the very beginning of this journey, a woman who knows cancer well said to me: You’re going to be surprised by who shows up.
News is news. It spreads like wildfire. In the beginning, I felt like I was on fire and at the receiving end of a firehose—a firehose of loving, concerned texts, emails, and phone calls. These were beautiful and comforting in their way, but sort of like a bride at her own large wedding: there is no space to remember it and very little understanding amid the whirlwind. It’s all so overwhelming at the start. The shock, the doctor’s visits, the tests, the results, the questions from friends and family, the worry. Sometimes I felt like responding to a text was just another thing added to an already crushing list.
Here we are, nine months after my diagnosis and my inbox is much more manageable. I can say my various inboxes are now quite enjoyable! Of course, people get on with their lives—I fully expect them to. But there have been a few people that just won’t leave, and I mean that in the most beautiful way possible. They keep showing up: with a text, with a card, with a gift card, with a meal, or with a bottle of wine that they bring over at the last minute to sit and drink with us. They are consistent encouragers and they just won’t walk away. These people vary from dear friends who have become dearer still, to acquaintances that continue to reach out in love, over and over again. They get into the trenches with us in their way.
This has been a surprise. The woman at the start was right: I’ve been delightfully surprised by people who continued to show up.
I do want to add a caveat: you have to respect a person’s boundaries and understand that their way of receiving love may be different than yours. If you don’t know someone well, they may not have the energy to sit and have a glass of wine with you, so that is perhaps a note or gift card scenario. Just keep at it. Keep writing those cards and sending them.
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Pain Breeds Comfort
Ty and I decided to take a weekend away before surgery. As always, we signed up for spa treatments (always!) and I found myself in the waiting room with just one other woman. We both had on our plush robes and slipper. I was drinking hot herbal tea and she had a glass of champagne. (Lest you think I’m just healthier: nobody offered me a glass of champagne.)
We got to chatting. Her name was Laura and I found out that she had a Knoxville connection: her husband lived here for a time in years’ past. She mentioned her three kids and I learned that two of them were college-age and one was still in high school. She told me that they had all moved back in with them because of Covid—it was just easier to do virtual learning from home than it was from campus.
Oh, how fun! I remarked. So, all three of them are living at home with you again?
She paused.
No. She said, tearing up. Not to be a downer, but our youngest child was killed in a car accident in January. That’s why we are here for the weekend… just a little family trip together.
Oh, Laura! I looked her right in the eye. Laura, I’m so sorry that you’re going through this. I can’t even imagine how hard this must be.
Thank you, she said. And then her name was called for her treatment. Just like that, she was gone.
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Somehow, pain is less awkward when you’ve gone through it yourself. It’s easier to know what to do. It’s easier to know what to say. I guess you begin to understand that nothing that’s said is going to change their world. You’re simply acknowledging the pain.
A few months ago, Ty and I were having lunch downtown. We saw an acquaintance on the other side of the restaurant. His father-in-law passed away from cancer a few years ago. He is the kind of friend that could have easily nodded and waved from a distance—we wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Instead, we watched him excuse himself from his business meeting and head over to approach our table.
Ty and Sarah, he said, his eyes locking in on ours, I am so sorry to hear about what you’re going through. I just wanted to let you know that. I’m so sorry—I know it’s hard. We are thinking of you and praying for you.
Thank you, we said, and he headed back to his table.
My eyes stung with tears because I knew he knew. It was as real and understandable to him as it was to us right then, as it still is to us today. He knew because he lived it.
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Perhaps I can call that a silver lining: because of this hard road I’ve had to walk, I can perhaps be a comfort to other people who are coming behind me.
In the meantime: you can glean from my experience. May you see the opportunities around you to listen, to hug, to comfort in a way that you are uniquely equipped to.
xo,
