How to Help Someone Coping with Cancer

Having been both a cancer patient and a cancer caregiver in 2017, I believe I am in the rather unique position to help people figure out how they can REALLY help a friend, co-worker, or family member who is coping with this insidious disease.

First, it is normal not to know what to say.  Having gone through this three times now, even I don’t know what to say when I find out someone else is dealing with cancer.  But I can tell you that it’s important to say SOMETHING, even if it’s just that you don’t know what to say but you’re thinking of them.  And you don’t have to do it in person.  Send a text, an email, or a card.  It’s important for cancer patients and caregivers to know that there are people thinking of them.

Try not to say, “If there’s anything you need, please ask.”  Although your heart is in the right place, and it is likely that you WOULD do anything they ask, this statement switches the burden from you to the person who is struggling.  Most of us will politely thank you and not request anything because we “don’t want to be a burden” or we’re unsure how much you are really willing to do for us.  Suggesting a specific thing that you are willing to do is far more helpful.  You might consider the following:

•          Can I walk your dog?  Can I check on your cat?
•          Can I take the kids to practice/school/the movies?
•          Can I rake your leaves/shovel your driveway/do some spring clean-up?
•          Can I take out your garbage?
•          Can I run any errands for you?  Can I pick up a prescription?

If you are inclined to give something instead, these are a few of the most useful ideas for a family who is dealing with cancer:

1.  Food.  Everyone has to eat.  When someone is recovering from surgery or going through treatment, energy is low for everyone, not just the patient.  If you like to cook, bring your food in disposable dishes so the family doesn’t have to worry about returning anything to you.   A co-worker actually borrowed my crock pot ahead of time so she could fill it with homemade soup to deliver on the day we came home from the hospital.  Remember the little extras like a bottle of salad dressing or whipped cream to go on dessert.  If you don’t like to cook, take-out or restaurant gift cards are perfect too.

2.  Services.  When you’re focused on a patient getting well, there are so many household tasks that can fall through the cracks.  Consider hiring a lawn service to take care of mowing the grass or leaf clean up.  Contract with a maid service to come in and clean the house, even if it’s just the bathrooms.  Keeping a household running when you’re down a team member can be really difficult.

3.  Gifts.  Everyone loves it when the UPS truck pulls up to your house, but someone living through a cancer diagnosis loves it even more!  Receiving a gift, no matter how small, will bring a smile to someone’s face – guaranteed.  Some thoughtful ideas include Edible Arrangements (healthy and yummy!), a journal to record things to be grateful for (a thankful heart speeds healing!), relaxation products (lotions, teas, bubble bath to help combat stress), a healthy eating cookbook (post-cancer dietary changes may be overwhelming), magazines/books/movies (recovery can be extremely boring!).

4.  Money.  This may seem rather crass, but costs add up quickly when you’re dealing with illness.  An extended hospital stay might mean the family has to pay for a hotel, parking, and meals.  If the medical facility is out of town, a gas card would be much appreciated.  When you’re away from home, things always cost more than you expect.

5.  Don’t forget the caregiver.  When my husband was first diagnosed, a friend said, “You need to take care of yourself.  The doctors are going to take care of him, but no one is going to take care of you.”  The best ideas for the caregiver involve relaxation and “me time.”  Consider a yoga class or a massage.  If you’re local, offer to take him/her out for the evening or the afternoon.  Having been both a caregiver and a patient, I can tell you being the caregiver is much, much harder.  It is physically and emotionally demanding, and you often feel isolated and overwhelmed. 

There is really no wrong way to support someone who is going through this.  Any gesture, big or small, reminds the family that someone cares.  Think about the things you would need or want if you were in this situation – those are probably the same things your friend, co-worker, or family member needs and wants too.

Hell is not other people. It's waiting for test results.

I’m sorry to contradict your favorite college English professor, but Sartre was wrong. 

Hell is NOT other people.  It’s waiting for test results.

You can trust me on this. I’ve had a lot of practice. 

Two years ago, my husband was diagnosed with bladder cancer.  He had none of the risk factors, and he was only 40 at the time, so it really came out of left field.  We still don’t know why this happened to him.  For almost a year, he had surgery every three months so his doctor could take biopsies.  Every time, we waited a full week for the results. 

So much goes through your mind while you wait.  You imagine the worst possible scenarios and the best possible scenarios.  You are afraid to let your guard down, because the last time you did that you heard the words, “There are cancer cells in his urine.”  Your mind wanders to the dark side, and you suddenly pull it back, afraid that your negative thoughts are spinning out into the Universe and altering the test results somehow.

You get mad.  Angry, even.  You wonder why this happened to you.  What you did to “deserve” this.  Then, almost immediately, you remind yourself that you don’t really believe the world works like that.  There is no “plan.”  It’s the only way you can reconcile when good things happen to bad people.  Otherwise, nothing makes sense.

You try to distract yourself, with varying degrees of success.  You make mistakes in your cross stitch because you’re not fully present.  You watch TV, but suddenly realize you have no idea what’s going on.  You haven’t been paying attention.  You lose yourself in a book, but when you come up for air, the fear descends upon you, stronger than ever.

When the alarm goes off in the morning, your thoughts are blissfully untainted.  Dreams linger.  But within seconds you remember what is actually happening.  And it physically hurts.

Some days it feels like the weight of worry will crush you.  Gravity seems stronger when you try to get out of bed or off the couch.  Taking a deep breath becomes a luxury.  You get lightheaded trying to fill your lungs completely.  Every tenth time you succeed, but mostly your chest is tight from the stress.  Your breathing is shallow.

Finally, it’s time to go to the doctor’s office.  The ugly wallpaper on the waiting room walls seem to close in on you.  The chairs are uncomfortable, the magazines boring.  Chatter emanates from the TV, which is always set on a channel you hate.  It’s just noise, and you wish it would stop.

The door opens.  Your heart lurches into your throat, and your fingers start tingling.  The name called is not familiar.  The door closes.  This happens several times, until finally they call his name.

The nurse takes his blood pressure, and you honestly don’t give a fuck what that number is.  It doesn’t matter.  Not right now.  All that matters is those biopsies.

The nurse leaves, and there is more waiting.  It is even less comfortable now.  The room is hard and sterile.  The lights are harsh.  There are no boring magazines.

At last the doctor comes in.  He is smiling.  You haven’t felt this relieved since the last time you were here, three months ago. 

Your sense of humor returns.  Gravity releases you.  You may float into the clouds.  Your lungs fill completely – every time – and you exhale deeply.  Life can begin again.  For another three months, anyway.

Today I’m not worried as a caregiver.  I’m worried as a patient.  The radiologist found “something” on my mammogram.  They cannot tell if it is solid or fluid-filled.  I need to go back for an ultrasound.  I cannot get in for four days.  And so I wait.

I tell myself it is silly to worry.  It won’t make one bit of difference either way.  My therapist once told me if you worry and it doesn’t happen, you’ve wasted your time.  If you worry and it does happen, you’ve lived through it twice.

I resign to put it out of my thoughts.  And I am successful.  For three minutes.  And then it comes back again.  And again.  And again. 

Then the wishes start popping into my mind.

I wish my therapist had not died in a horrific car crash last summer. 

I wish my insurance would pay for an ultrasound every year, so they can see what they’re looking at more clearly the first damn time. 

I wish I hadn’t made an appointment for the day before my anniversary and a holiday weekend.

I wish I was wired not to think this way.

I wish that, for once, I could not have something on my mind.

As I reach out to my special circle of friends and family, I know now more than ever that Hell is absolutely NOT other people.  I need to hear all of their many and varied voices, reassuring me that they are thinking about me and they are there for me to pour out my heart if I need to and that I am going to be OK.  I send texts and post messages and make phone calls.  I need them.  Every single one of them.

No.  Hell is most definitely not other people. 

It is waiting for tests.  And test results.