Friends With Cancer Or Other Serious Illnesses
A brief excerpt from "Good Manners for Nice People Who Sometimes Say F*ck," from the chapter, Friends With Serious Illnesses: What to do when a friend is really, really sick and could maybe even die.
("Cathy" is my late friend Cathy Seipp.)
Mystifyingly, when Cathy was fighting lung cancer, people who knew her well and should have known better would ask me to forward her their suggestions that she eat Tibetan mushrooms or stand on her head and snort dried deer antlers. They meant well, but they weren't thinking too hard. Cathy was highly rational and a vocal believer in evidence-based Western medicine--the kind dispensed by her Cedars-Sinai cancer specialists, as opposed to the kind dispensed in an Internet forward from somebody who believes that the government faked the moon landing.
Another bit from the same chapter:
For some, another person's cancer is the ultimate form of cooties, making them feel suddenly and uncomfortably mortal. Don't be ashamed if you feel this way. But, admit it to yourself, talk to friends about it, do whatever it takes to resist the urge to make like Jimmy Hoffa and disappear. If you just buck up and go visit the person, you'll probably find that they want to talk not about cancer but about whatever dumb crap you always talked about before. Ultimately, what you say is a lot less important than what you do. As the old saying about success goes, a lot of being successful in comforting somebody seriously ill is just showing the hell up.
This is true even if you don't have cancer. If I have something minor, like a stiff neck, I get all kinds of advice from everyone because it's obvious something's wrong. "No! I don't want to talk to you unless you've had certified medical training! And even then, I still may not want to talk to you!"
Fayd at July 22, 2014 9:29 AM
For some, another person's cancer is the ultimate form of cooties, making them feel suddenly and uncomfortably mortal. Don't be ashamed if you feel this way. But, admit it to yourself, talk to friends about it, do whatever it takes to resist the urge to make like Jimmy Hoffa and disappear.
When my uncle was dying of lung cancer, several of my cousins (his nieces and nephews) refused to visit.
"I want to remember him as he WAS," they said, "And I think he'd prefer it that way." As if this were some noble intention. As if they were doing him a favor in some way, robbing him of the chance to say goodbye but insisting they knew what he REALLY wanted.
I say suck it up and BE THERE. As hard as it is to spend a couple hours in a hospital room with a dying person, guess what sucks more: Dying of cancer.
sofar at July 22, 2014 11:08 AM
It goes for non-physical illnesses, too. A friend landed in the locked ward of a hospital after a suicide attempt. I said to a mutual friend, I said, "Let's go visit her." The friend looked horrified and said, "Why? What could we do? We're not psychiatrists!"
I said, "Your own brother died of AIDS. Would you be okay with his friends refusing to visit because 'what could we do? we're not immunologists'?" Amy's right: it's about showing up, not "solving" a medical or psychiatric problem.
And don't get me started on "I said nothing, didn't send a card, didn't acknowledge it, etc., because I didn't know what to say" ...
JD at July 22, 2014 11:26 AM
But what if the person wants to be left alone? I couldn't imagine being terminally ill and having a bunch of visitors. I wouldn't want to be seen, especially looking horribly.
Patrick at July 22, 2014 4:32 PM
Thank you for reminding me of the wonderful Cathy Seipp. Hers was the very first blog I ever read. I think it may have been a visit from you she posted about, having the 'usual world going to hell in a hand basket' conversation. That just made me laugh; it's just like the way I talk with my few close friends. I know I found you through her. I loved her writing - so smart and no bullshit.
Robintn at July 22, 2014 5:24 PM
It is important to note that the late Cathy Seipp lived for 5+ years with incurable lung cancer (an exceptionally long time) by scrupulously following the advice of competent medical professionals (and obtaining new, cutting-edge medicine).
The yak dung and ground-up antler "treatments" would have significantly shortened her life.
Jonathan Foreman at July 22, 2014 6:21 PM
Patrick, I hope you would reconsider and accept a quiet visit with friends.
Michelle at July 22, 2014 7:30 PM
Cathy also reminded us that cancer had not made her a better person. I miss her every day.
KateC at July 22, 2014 10:49 PM
Amy Alkon
http://www.advicegoddess.com/archives/2014/07/22/friends_with_ca.html#comment-4870433">comment from KateCI quote that at the start of the chapter.
Amy Alkon at July 22, 2014 11:38 PM
Amy Alkon
http://www.advicegoddess.com/archives/2014/07/22/friends_with_ca.html#comment-4870441">comment from Amy AlkonAnd perhaps some people might not want friends there -- but that would surely get communicated out. I somewhat recently had a friend who had a heart attack, and she only wanted her best friend there with her at the hospital. We (other friends) respected that -- of course. KateC and I sent cards, which, rather impressively, the hospital sent back to us after she checked out, and we both sent them to her home.
The important thing is that the person has whatever makes them comfortable.
Amy Alkon at July 22, 2014 11:41 PM
You're assuming I have any, Michelle. But I suppose out of 24 hours a day, an hour long visit from friends wouldn't exactly deprive me of alone time.
Patrick at July 22, 2014 11:43 PM
> Cathy also reminded us that cancer
> had not made her a better person.
I liked how her announcement to her blog visitors noted, in early paragraphs, that she'd never puffed a cigarette in her life. (I wasn't a personal friend.)
From any other, that would be a bitchslap at presumptuous gossips. From her, it was a hearty slice of "we owe God a death," liberally peppered with "no special hurry."
People forget: Bells are tolling, and it's not a policy problem.
Crid [CridComment at Gmail] at July 23, 2014 12:39 AM
Yes, Patrick, I am.
And I respect solitude and alone time.
The idea of keeping people at bay because you look like crap just sounds isolating and lonely.
Michelle at July 23, 2014 5:11 AM
But what if the person wants to be left alone? I couldn't imagine being terminally ill and having a bunch of visitors. I wouldn't want to be seen, especially looking horribly.
I'm sure you'd let people know you prefer not to get visitors. Although I suspect, when you're in the last weeks of your life, you'll want the comfort of loved ones, at least in small doses.
I also think people should consider that their illness impacts more people than just themselves. Our friends and family might need to see us to deal with their impending loss, and, if we can, we should grant them that. We get to sleep when it's over. They have to move on without us.
MonicaP at July 23, 2014 7:56 AM
When I was in chemo, the thing I desired most of all was to feel "normal". I was hyper-aware of my difference, being bald, pale, and super-skinny got me lots of double-takes and self-conscious-look-aways. Luckily I had friends and family that continued to include me in their lives, and let me have a few moments of normalcy in the long, scary, lonely times.
Just be their friend/sibling/child/whatever, let the "90% of success is just showing up" work for you. It means so much more than you can possibly know.
bkmale at July 24, 2014 8:29 AM
"If you just buck up and go visit the person, you'll probably find that they want to talk not about cancer but about whatever dumb crap you always talked about before. Ultimately, what you say is a lot less important than what you do. As the old saying about success goes, a lot of being successful in comforting somebody seriously ill is just showing the hell up."
I had a friend who died from cancer. He lived 8 hours away. I went to see him five times in the two years between the time he told me about his illness and his death. We talked very little about his struggles with the disease. He just enjoyed the company. I am so glad that spent that time with him. I still miss him, but I have no regrets.
altered states at July 25, 2014 9:46 PM
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