The Big C

 When someone is diagnosed with cancer, lead with help not curiosity

 

No sooner had Buckingham Palace announced that King Charles had been diagnosed with a form of cancer than the speculation started. What kind of cancer was it? At what stage had it been discovered? What was the first line of treatment? Was it chemotherapy or radiation? Would he need surgery? Was he going to try some alternative therapies? What was the prognosis? How was he feeling? How was Queen Camilla coping?

 

The questions came fast and hard, even though no answers were forthcoming. But then, that’s how it is for lesser mortals as well. Anyone who announces a cancer diagnosis can expect to be inundated with these questions, in varying tones of curiosity and concern (which is, perhaps, why some people choose not to disclose their condition at all). Not only are questions like these intrusive and unhelpful, they also put an unnecessary strain on a patient who may be clinging on to his or her medical privacy because it is the last thing he or she has control over.

 

Sometimes these questions come from a place of love, but too often they are just a form of prying. And on occasion, they are also asked with a view to getting reassurance. Oh he had lung cancer, did he? Pity he smoked a million cigarettes! (I don’t, so I’m okay.) Both her mother and sister got breast cancer as well? Ah, it must run in the family. (Not in mine, thankfully!). And so on.

 

If you ever feel tempted to ask such questions, I have just two words of advice for you: please don’t. Nobody will think you unfeeling and unsympathetic if you don’t probe deeper into anyone’s medical diagnosis. They will give you as much information as they are comfortable with – and you must be content with that.

 

What you can do, if someone shares their cancer diagnosis, is to make yourself helpful. And no, it is not helpful to mutter cliches like, “If there is anything I can do, please do let me know.” They will know you don’t mean it; and no, they will never let you know. 

 

Instead, do something off your own bat that will make their life easier. Make a batch of meals they can bung into a freezer and heat up for the rest of the week. If you know their reading tastes, buy books that you think would appeal to them, something that can occupy them during sleepless nights. Offer to drive them to their chemotherapy sessions and keep them company while they are there. Take the children off their hands for a couple of days a week and allow them the space to heal. Listen with a sympathetic ear if they want to vent. 

 

And here’s what you don’t do. Don’t suggest some quack remedies that worked such wonders for your aunt. Don’t send them links of articles of experimental therapies at the cutting edge of science; they’ve already googled them. Don’t tell them that everything is going to be okay; you don’t know that. Don’t tell them the cancer stories of other people – even if it is one with a happy ending. Everyone’s cancer journey is different; respect that.   

 

Just be there for them in practical ways. That’s all you need to do; and it’s all they want.