There’s no getting away from it. Slowly but noticeably, things are beginning to progress. Dennis of course is overreacting - I can’t even cough without getting the third degree (how do I know WHY I’m coughing??). My CT scan is Friday afternoon, a few hours after my usual consultation, so there will be no results for a further 3 weeks - unless it’s bad news and I get The Phone Call. I’ll just have to wait and see. Dennis is already convinced that things have spread but we all know how reliable his judgment on this matter is, bless him.
Meantime, I’m finding myself feeling a bit more vulnerable. I can still push away the intrusive thoughts (never good ones nowadays - where’s that adolescent ability to dream of John Lennon gone??? Now it’s just cancer, cancer and more cancer). I’m worried they are breaching my defences and I’m going to end up side by side with Dennis in the Jeremiah stakes.
So today I’m writing about….
The worst things you can say to someone with cancer, especially cancer of the incurable kind:
1. “So and so has the same problems and she….” Hold on. No one has the same problem. Each case is unique in its chemical complexity. Each personality is different. Each body, each temperament - both are unique. Comparing yourself to anyone else is futile and risky. I am ME and I’m doing the best I can.
2. “ Maybe you need to get out and about more….” Yes I know that and I would if I could. But most times I can’t because I suffer from chemo-induced fatigue. You won’t understand what that feels like until, god forbid, you experience cancer and chemo so count your blessing and button it.
3. “Any of us could be run over by a bus tomorrow….” Once I’ve apologised for blacking your eye, I might try to explain that the possibility is very different from the probability. Follow the Green Cross Code, or whatever it’s called now, and your possibility is low. But it’s a bit like I’ve been plonked in the middle of the road. The chances are a lot higher and, if the bus overtakes a bike, the probability becomes certainty. Not knowing what day your bus may come is hard for many. For now, I don’t think bout it.
4. “None of us knows what the future holds….” Absolutely true. But some of us have it in writing that our future is finite. When, of course, we cannot know. It could be the end of this week if neutropoenic sepsis gets hold; it could be some time next year, if the cells are multiplying and on the move; it could be a couple of years if luck and Dr U’s good judgment come into it. Plus of course my cooperation.
5. “My (blank) has the same as you and she’s been fine for (3,5,10…)years….” I’m really pleased to hear good news stories but does she have the same condition as I do? Triple Negative cells are complete and utter bastards, the Usain Bolt of breast cancer - one day they will be beaten but they are quick off the mark, born to move fast and utterly ruthless when competing against chemotherapy and other treatments. They will win at any cost.
6. “You’re looking so well….” Even oncologists say that. What it means is, I’m not bald, I’ve not got huge dark rings under my eye (tho my swollen lid does look a bit piratical), I still smile and convince people that everything is hunky dory. But looking well is rather different from feeling well or being well. I rarely feel well because of the effects on the body of the cancer and the treatment, but that often can be disguised in order to get through something like book group or an appointment. It doesn’t change the fact that I may well feel like shit and telling me I look well makes me feel that maybe things aren’t so bad and I’m being a wuss.
7. “Oh well, you’ve had your good years. It’s not like you’re in your 30s with your life ahead of you…” Yes, someone has actually said that, a member of the support group and therefore someone who herself has Stage 4 breast cancer. She is young and so justifiably angry at all her hopes and dreams being stolen from her by cancer. For that reason, she’s excused. What was that French proverb? “If youth could know and age could do…” I hate what she said but I understand where it’s coming from. To be diagnosed at 28 when you’ve just got married, have your fertility destroyed, then get a Stage 4 diagnosis and be rejected for both adoption and fostering on the basis that she might die at any time must be should destroying and the pain on her face when she blurted it out was heart-breaking. Sweeping judgments are forgiven.
8. “It’s really time to get your affairs in order…” No one has said that to me but others have been told it! At this point, if your oncologist says it, you know you’re in deep shit.
But what you CAN say:
Optometrist: “Your left lens needs laser treatment but I should wait maybe a year.” Either he doesn’t really ‘get’ Stage 4 or he’s an optimist, bless him.
OK, rant over. It’s just that one of those was said to me really recently and it’s been niggling at me ever since! Roll on Friday.
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