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Kate Carr

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Foot In Mouth

What (not) to say when someone tells you they've got cancer

By Kate Carr

‘Rather you than me’ was one of the - sadly many - crass remarks I had to put up with when I told people I had cancer. This one came from a colleague and I was staggered by his insensitivity. He didn’t have a clue what to say to me. But then nor did most people.

We’re happy to talk about each other’s broken legs or slipped discs, but when we hear the word cancer our manners desert us, and it makes a difficult situation worse. It stuns people. And it’s obvious why. Cancer equals death to most of us - sometimes rightly, but often wrongly - and our generation, with its pill-for-everything mentality and peacetime presumptions, is hopeless at dealing with mortality. When we can’t bear to contemplate something as random as bad luck, we try to find a very specific reason why someone has cancer (and therefore why we won’t get it).

It was often suggested that it was my fault that I had breast cancer. One of the first people I told said with great confidence, ‘Ah, but you didn’t breastfeed your children, did you?’ Er, yes, I did actually. Another favourite: ‘You’ve always had such stressful jobs, it’s not surprising.’ Funny that the people I met at the clinic came from every background imaginable, including some who could only be described as bovine. But the most trying line was: ‘Maybe you’ve been suppressing your anger.’ I was sorely tempted to prove them wrong with a swift head butt.

Others couldn’t bear to talk about it at all, and would stop all discussion with: ‘I just know you’re going to be fine.’ As even oncologists rarely say this, it’s pretty galling to hear it from someone who may not even be sure what an oncologist is.

The most extreme version of this tactic is complete denial - one acquaintance never mentioned my cancer, even when I was totally bald from chemotherapy. Others hid behind the post: you’ve no idea how insulting it is to get a card from a ‘friend’ - yes, this really happened - asking you to get in touch when you’re better.

By now you’re probably thinking: ‘But I’m not like that. I call a spade a spade.’ This is preferable, of course, but not always entirely successful if not thought through. I remember lunching with someone who, as the menu arrived, breezily asked me if I ever thought about death. ‘All the time,’ I wanted to say, ‘but not in a noisy restaurant with a waiter hovering.’ Nor did I want to talk about my prognosis in front of my children at the school gates, or on the phone when they were sitting two feet away.

More fun were the great advice givers. Echinacea, carrot juice, standing on your head, coffee enemas and, of course, Positive Thinking: I was told about these remedies daily - except by the doctors.

But enough of the moaning. Some people were marvellous, saying and doing just the right thing.

My experience is that the most important thing is to say something. If you hear the news firsthand, respond. Say you’re sorry. Ask questions. In short, act like you would with any problem. And if you hear the news second-hand, get straight on the phone. The longer you leave it, the more awkward it will be.

After that, keep in touch. I loved hearing from people. I often left the answer phone on when I was too depressed, tired or unwell to talk, but it was nice to know people were rooting for me, particularly when they didn’t expect a call back. Letters and cards ditto, so long as people weren’t hiding behind them. And I still needed support when my treatment finished. Everyone else thought, ‘Thank goodness that’s over!’ But I was traumatised, unsure what the future held.

I also loved getting presents. It really cheered me up. Not cancer books, but lipsticks, magazines, bath oil. Life is doom-laden enough when you have cancer and I needed lightening up. Big time. Trivia made me feel normal.

Offers of help were appreciated, too. But - and it’s a huge but - suggest something specific or it puts the onus on the person who is ill to organise you, giving them more, not less, to worry about. Say you’ll drive to the hospital, take the children for a sleepover, do the supermarket shop, whatever.

One saintly friend acted as the contact for anyone wanting an update so that I didn’t have to keep repeating myself. She even told someone who kept ringing me, despite the fact that I hardly knew her, to leave me alone.

Which sums things up: my pesky caller didn’t think about what I needed. My friend did. As Joe Slovo, the great anti-apartheid campaigner, said, ‘I have cancer, but I also have feelings.’