Friends in Need
You would think that after going through breast cancer twice, I'd be a walking Emily Post on the etiquette of supporting someone who's at the front end of the process.
But I have to say that it's still a pretty tricky proposition.
I've had occasion to think about this a lot recently, because two people I know professionally were recently diagnosed with cancer—one breast, one not. And while I've offered support and answered questions, I still feel like I'm not doing everything I could be doing to help them through this.
Part of it, of course, is that everyone is different. I know that when people ask me for theater or restaurant or travel recommendations, it is very rare that I give an immediate answer. I almost always ask them a lot of questions first, to gauge their tastes and pet peeves (and budget). A first-time visitor from small-town U.S.A. is likely to want different things out of a theater experience than a culture-savvy local, and I'd tailor my suggestions accordingly.
The same is true in this situation, but it's much harder to suss out the preferences of a newly diagnosed cancer patient than it is the predilections of someone at the TKTS booth. Often, the patient doesn't even know her or his own preferences—the experience is so singular that it's hard to anticipate how you will handle it.
I'm trying not to assume that what I'd want is what they want, but it's hard not to use myself as a guide. During my first go-round, I remember realizing that one friend had been strangely silent. We hadn't been in close touch recently, but I was pretty sure he'd heard the news from a mutual friend. I thought about it for a while and figured that my friend hadn't suddenly become insensitive; it seemed more likely that he just didn't know what to do, so he did nothing. Turns out I was right.
Here's a portion of our e-mail exchange from June 2001, which began with my sending him a breezy message that, at the end, referred to what was going on in an effort to give him an opening.
With all that in mind, I've just written thinking-of-you-but-no-need-to-reply-type e-mail messages to both colleagues.
And I'm trying hard to make peace with my helplessness.
But I have to say that it's still a pretty tricky proposition.
I've had occasion to think about this a lot recently, because two people I know professionally were recently diagnosed with cancer—one breast, one not. And while I've offered support and answered questions, I still feel like I'm not doing everything I could be doing to help them through this.
Part of it, of course, is that everyone is different. I know that when people ask me for theater or restaurant or travel recommendations, it is very rare that I give an immediate answer. I almost always ask them a lot of questions first, to gauge their tastes and pet peeves (and budget). A first-time visitor from small-town U.S.A. is likely to want different things out of a theater experience than a culture-savvy local, and I'd tailor my suggestions accordingly.
The same is true in this situation, but it's much harder to suss out the preferences of a newly diagnosed cancer patient than it is the predilections of someone at the TKTS booth. Often, the patient doesn't even know her or his own preferences—the experience is so singular that it's hard to anticipate how you will handle it.
I'm trying not to assume that what I'd want is what they want, but it's hard not to use myself as a guide. During my first go-round, I remember realizing that one friend had been strangely silent. We hadn't been in close touch recently, but I was pretty sure he'd heard the news from a mutual friend. I thought about it for a while and figured that my friend hadn't suddenly become insensitive; it seemed more likely that he just didn't know what to do, so he did nothing. Turns out I was right.
Here's a portion of our e-mail exchange from June 2001, which began with my sending him a breezy message that, at the end, referred to what was going on in an effort to give him an opening.
Me: . . . [D]id you hear my sucky news? I'm guessing yes (Mutual Friend said she was going to tell you). So, do you have any good bald jokes?If I were writing that message today, I'd add, "You're going to feel helpless no matter what. There's just no way around it." Cold comfort, but true.
Him: . . . There's no way around this. I'm a bad friend. Mutual Friend told me a while ago, and I've got 3 drafts of a letter to you that I just never sent. They either seemed too maudlin, too flip, too well, wrong. So I never sent you anything, which makes me a cad. Wife and I have been thinking about you and feeling for you. I'm sorry I didn't share that with you earlier.
Me: . . . [Y]ou're not a cad. I had a feeling that you might be feeling awkward about things, which is why I wrote in the first place -- to let you know that it's OK. And that I'm OK. (I mean, I'm bald and lopsided and feel crappy more often than I'd like, but other than that I'm OK.) It's been an ordeal and will continue to be one for some time, but I'm getting through it a day at a time, which is pretty much all you can do in this situation. I'm grateful for a lot of things, and one of those is my friends. So just be my friend -- write me messages like the one below [it was a very funny message] every once in a while so I can feel like a normal person now and again. And be patient if I take a while to respond. That's it. Cool?
With all that in mind, I've just written thinking-of-you-but-no-need-to-reply-type e-mail messages to both colleagues.
And I'm trying hard to make peace with my helplessness.
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at 7:59 AM
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