How People Show Up (or don't) when you have Cancer

I once read a book called Option B by Sheryl Sandberg. It’s a story about resiliency in her experience of losing her husband. At the time, I was grieving the loss of my son, not to death, but to distance. Never in a million years would I have thought that this book would not only help me through the pain I felt, but also give me the necessary tools to cope with my cancer diagnosis, as well as the insight into what could happen on my journey toward healing.

The author talked about how lonely she felt after the passing of her husband and how people she saw every day and friends closest to her suddenly didn’t know what to say to her or do for her. I experienced many instances of this after I was diagnosed. At first, word seemed to travel very fast that I had stage IV melanoma, and people I had not spoken to in years–decades, even–sent messages saying things like, “I would love to come see you. It has been so long, I just wanted to tell you I am thinking of you”, etc. That lasted for about a week, and then…nothing. People that I thought were closest to me surprised me the most; I did not understand the hesitancy to talk to me openly about what was happening to me. Instead, they seemed to want to fill the air with small talk or stories about their own health.  

I cannot tell you the number of times people come up to me and tell me their stories of someone they know with cancer or some other personal ailment: 

“My son-in-law has cancer all over, and they are giving him three months.”

“It seems like everyone is dying of cancer…it is so sad.”

“I had to spend three days in the hospital when I had my knee surgery.”

Instead of asking, and then listening to me, they want to talk–almost like they are one-upping you. Even if they do ask, “How is your health?,” I can tell that once I start to answer with my truth, they are already done listening and mulling over what they want to tell me. I can see it in their eyes–how they grow distant. Their nods–absent and flimsy.

I think reading this book better prepared me for cancer. Not to teach the people in my life how to react to me, or show up for me, but to be there for the other cancer patients I would meet along the way. I learned that instead of saying, “Let me know if there is anything I can do,” you just, well, do it. Send the cleaning company to the house for them, buy the gift cards for food or restaurants, and tell them, “I am going to pick up your kids from school tomorrow.” It is tough to ask, at least for me, and honestly, I did not know what I needed. I was sick, in pain, and scared.  All I wanted was to feel better and get better.

Cancer made me question people’s motives more than I did before. I had to work hard not to become cynical and assume no one cared, but the truth is, no one does. People are all consumed with their own lives–with their own versions of “cancer”–to have genuinely wanted to know how I was doing. Cancer showed me what real, authentic, caring people looked and acted like. My circle of friends got very small, very fast. Even my oldest sons spent less time with me after I got cancer than before. Eventually, they went away for good. The people that were left turned out to be all I needed.

What I have come to understand, now three years into this cancer battle, is this; I prefer to talk about it and not act like it isn’t there. I prefer authentic people and real conversations. I am not afraid to answer questions about how I am doing or how I am feeling. It is important to me to acknowledge everything I have been through and try and educate people on how I got sick, and how I got better. I believe all people want to be seen. It is a universal truth. Sometimes, having cancer can make you feel invisible and lonely–and this is the last way you want to feel when faced with such a world-shaking, painful, vulnerable disease. 

Don’t be afraid to talk, offer without asking, give from your heart, and always lead with love.

This is a photo of me with my Sister-Love who has always, always showed up.