support in different sizes, shapes and faces
April 19, 2010
By Sheryl
A friend (co-worker, relative, acquaintance) has just been diagnosed with breast cancer. What do you do (say, not say, feel, think)?
Not always an easy question to answer. And even for someone like me – someone who has actually been through the cancer experience itself – it can be perplexing. You’d think I’d know it all, right? Wrong. Why? Because support comes in so many forms and is so very personal. What helps one person may not help another. Some may thrive on companionship and company while others may need the solitude of privacy. As a bystander, it can be a tough call to figure it all out.
When I was celebrating my fifth year as a survivor, my best friend got diagnosed with breast cancer, too. Her reaction was so different than mine. While I had needed to talk things out and explore my emotions, she needed to sit down, matter-of-factly gather the facts and tackle the logistics of her treatment. While I had depended on her to filter the endless media hype that could easily send me into a panic, she had an endless thirst to read anything she could get her hands on, good news or bad. She was stoic while I was emotional. Her emotions many times were hidden; mine adorned my sleeve.
And so, I felt a bit helpless even though I had been through it and even though I knew that she depended on my experience and knowledge to help guide her.
I’m sure you understand what I’m getting at here. You want to help but you don’t always know how. I was helped by so many people and conversely, hurt, too. People made mistakes, which hurt. A lot.
Like the woman I knew from our children’s nursery school who made an obvious and abrupt about-face when she spotted me coming down the grocery aisle and again, weeks later, in the school parking lot. Or the cousin who phoned me a couple of days after I came home from the hospital and said, “I just went for my mammogram – and thank goodness it was negative!” And how could I forget that call I got, just days after my surgery, from another young mother who babbled on about what a shock it was to hear of my diagnosis because “We’re all young—just like you…” Um, thanks for the reminder.
Sorry if I sound a bit peeved, but I was hurting. Years have given me the distance and wisdom to now realize this: none of the hurt was intentional, but rather an attempt (however ill-fated) to say something— anything.
People want to help, but they simply don’t always know how. I’ve spoken to dozens of other survivors and they all concur that just knowing someone out there cares is often comfort enough. A diagnosis of breast cancer leaves a person emotionally raw and frightened. If you turn away, that person is being hurt twice: once, from the diagnosis itself and then again, from your (implied) rejection.
Don’t know what to say? Even a simple, “I don’t know what to say,” is better than ignoring the person outright. It is not a rejection, but rather, an admission of caring.
Tune in next week when I share some surefire tips to help you help someone else. And if you have your own, please share.
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