I read an essay in the Globe & Mail today titled ‘what not to say to someone who has cancer’. After listing all the wrong things to say and do, the writer concludes with “don’t feel awkward”. I had to laugh because it’s precisely this fear of saying the wrong thing that makes people feel so awkward. To add fuel to the fire, people differ in terms of what they find upsetting. Someone told me their dad used to say, “There’s nothing you can say and there’s nothing you can do, but you can’t say nothing and you can’t do nothing.” That kind of captures the catch-22-ness of it.
Times of crisis definitely bring personality differences to light. I’m pretty far to one end of the emotional openness spectrum, with ‘wears heart on sleeve’ at one end and ‘holds cards close to chest’ at the other (and if you don’t know which I am, well, “Welcome to my blog, it’s nice to meet you.”). I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve cried in the past year. I stay calm in a crisis. I handle stress well. I’m adaptable and level-headed. In other contexts, though, my ‘stoicism’ is a weakness, particularly when it comes to providing emotional support. I delegate condolence calls, sympathy cards and funeral attendance to Ray.
When my best friend from childhood lost both her parents within a six-month period, I made excuses and skipped the funerals to avoid having to express emotions or find the right words. (Guilt and regret followed. I apologized last year when she came to my dad’s celebration of life and she was wonderful and totally forgiving of course.)
I recently came across this passage I wrote a decade or so ago: “Last Christmas I got a letter from a friend whose daughter had been diagnosed with leukemia. Many times this past year I thought about sending her a card or a letter or doing something. But I didn’t. I mailed the rest of my Christmas cards weeks ago, but hers still sits in my purse waiting for the right words to come.” I never did mail the card, but she’s one of the first people I reached out to for help after the shock of Nick’s diagnosis (her daughter’s doing great by the way).
All that to say, I can empathize with people who struggle with finding the right thing to say. Over the past year, I’ve developed an enormous amount of respect (and appreciation) for people at the other end of the spectrum, those for whom there is no awkwardness because they simply speak from their heart and exude warmth and compassion. What a gift! So grateful to have those people in my life right now.
As the email responses came in after we first shared our news, I noticed a pattern and thought, “Huh. So that’s all there is to it.” Expressing sympathy isn’t as complicated as I’d feared. Most responses had a variation of the following three parts: 1 – sorry this is happening to you / I can’t imagine what you’re going through / so shocked to hear; 2 – let us know if there’s anything you need / we’re here for you / willing to help in any way we can; 3 – keeping you in our thoughts and prayers / sending positive vibes your way / *hugs*.
A few people waited quite a while before getting in touch, and those emails tended to start with, “sorry, but I just didn’t know what to say”. And a couple people we never heard from at all. And that’s okay too, because I’ve been there. I get it.
Another piece of advice someone shared on how to interact with people going through tough times was, “Follow their lead.” Simple, but very solid advice. Just treat the person the same as always, but be willing to listen if they want to talk about it. No need to fix things or offer profound words of wisdom.
On the update front, Nick got treatment #9 under his belt yesterday. He slept through the three hours of treatment, the ride home and then for about 16 hours straight after we got home, only waking once to take his meds. He and Grant booked their flights to Japan last week as well as their one ‘luxury’ night at a nice resort with hot tubs for after their Mount Fuji climb. They were pretty psyched about it. He continues to amaze us with his strength and positivity through all this.
The hematologist ordered an extra blood test last week called an ESR. It’s a measure of inflammation. It’s not definitive by any means, but a high sed rate is one indicator of lymphoma. A normal sed rate is between 0 and 6. Nick’s was initially 12, which isn’t particularly high, and it’s now down to 2, so it’s moving in the right direction.
Our crumpled car has been taken away and Ray’s been busy cutting up the tree. In dreams, cars can represent your life’s journey, so perhaps taking a chainsaw to the metaphorical tree that crashed down on our life will be therapeutic for him.
You are such a great read Carolyn. I take my hat off to your honesty…you’ve really made me think (again!). Fingers crossed for sunniness xxxxx
Thank you Karen. Nice to hear you found it thought provoking. Sunny today and more expected tomorrow. Those stubborn snow piles won’t last the week. 🙂
Very interesting perspective and I can relate big time.
I had a feeling Ray would get some positive out of taking care of the Tree.
I am thrilled to see Nic’s progress!
Big Hug from Helena, Lucky and me 🙂
Thanks Carm. Miss seeing you guys in the ‘hood.
Oh my goodness Carolyn ! As always I must say I truly look forward to and enjoy reading your thoughts, insights and humourours comments. I hope you know that I am with you in my thoughts and in my heart as you go through this challenging time. I know we don’t live close enough to get together but if I did I would be there to visit and take you out!!!!! Thank you so much for sharing your updates and feelings. I get so excited when I see a new post. Love and hugs to you all. 🤗😍💖
So nice to hear all that Teresa. And even though you’re far away, you came to visit me in my dreams with your black, white & red Great Dane. 😉
“…my stoicism is a weakness particularly when it comes to providing emotional support.” I disagree. You just provide support in different ways. Over the years and through the challenges I’ve had, you always called to check in and see how I was doing. And to listen. And to laugh with me. And even though you didn’t SAY anything,
I always knew that you were calling to make sure I was okay. And that’s why you’ve always been my favourite sister. 💕
Nah, I was probably just bored. 😂 ❤️
Hey there, sis-in-law…I used to say ‘That Carolyn could write a book’…..Now I say ‘Write a Book’!. Your strength shines through, Carolyn, in your literary skills…..that’s for bloody sure! Now that you are (or soon will be) a ‘retired person’ (; , you MUST make a mark in that field along with all else in your ‘bucket list’. You won’t be disappointed….and neither will we. You speak of your discomfort expressing sympathy in times of other people’s troubles BUT you sure make up for it with your writing finesse, my love!
Wonderful planning, Nick! What an experience you will have! You will have to install a language app for Japanese….an attempt at the local language is always appreciated (tho’ Japanese may be one of the more difficult to learn).
Lots of love, all,
Auntie Rose xo
Thanks for all the compliments Rose! Writing of some sort is definitely in the retirement plans. ❤️
I think you’re much better at this “saying what you feel” thing than you think, Carolyn. Your blogs have been both heart wrenching and inspirational. Your family, meaning you and Ray, has the strength to get Nick through anything. Just hang in there and keep writing…..you’re so good at it.
And Japan sounds so exciting. You’ll be there before you know it, Nick.
Love from Acton. You’re all always in our thoughts. XX
Thanks Janet. Writing the blogs is my therapy in a way, so I’m happy that other people are finding value in it as well. xo
sending love and friendship. thank you for sharing updates on Nick – treatments and tests and days in between. And thank you for opening the door to shine light on how you are navigating the landscape. You raw honesty – delivered with humour and insight always connects me to something bigger.
Xojennifer
Eloquently written and it’s good to be able to voice what so many want to but cannot!
Hi Carolyn
As someone in the same boat as Nick but with a much slower burning sort, I am touched by how frequently people show their concern in the most loving way. This can be a double-edged sword, in that there is a desire within me to just lead a normal life and cope with whatever treatment is coming my way. However what it does do, each time someone tells you how well you look is remind you that you have a problem to face (that you generally would like to forget!). There can be an element to this of denying you the chance to say how you are. but sometimes this is a blessing too. And when people come up to you and grab your arm and somewhat conspiratorially want to know “exactly how you are?” it is also difficult to suddenly download your health issues – and so your health is passed off in that well known teenager phrase “fine!”. I am trying not to use this phrase but instead respond “very well thank you” (which I also appreciate denies further enquiry).
So it is a confusing picture for all and I am not sure there are any easy answers…..
Clive
Very true. If you treat things as completely normal it can feel as though you’re ignoring an elephant in the room, but life does need to carry on.