Sandra Winicur

My good friend Kay, the most empathetic person I know, wrinkled  her face with sympathy when I told her I had cancer. “Multiple myeloma?” she  asked. “Isn’t that the one with black skin moles?”

“No,” I said. “Myeloma affects bone marrow.”  

“Kay,” her husband said softly, “didn’t your uncle have multiple  myeloma?”

Kay turned back to me, her face again a mask of pity. “That’s  right,” she said. “My uncle died of that. It was terrible.”

Since my diagnosis several years ago, I have been treated to a  series of outrageous responses from people hearing the news. For example, my  friend Ada expressed concern. “But remember,” she continued brightly, “none of  us knows when we’re going to die.”

Finally goaded beyond civility at what seemed an attempt to  trivialize my situation, I snapped. “That’s a dumb thing to say,” I said, and  then immediately apologized. “Don’t apologize,” Ada said. “You’re not the only  one of my friends who’ll get cancer. Calm down and tell me why it was so dumb.”

Well, Ada, everyone dies, of course, but it is losing the illusion  of infinite time that is so devastating. My friend was right; no one knows the  time of their death, and I have been to the funeral of several acquaintances who  were perfectly healthy when I was first diagnosed. However, there is a big  difference between knowing the Angel of Death is somewhere out there and seeing  him holding the door open with one hand while he cordially motions you through  with the other.

Many people, encouraged by the popular press, believe cancer can  be cured by will power. When I was in the hospital for a stem cell transplant,  my cousin Elinor offered to send me a book. “There are several self-help books  for cancer patients,” she said. “Nothing uplifting,” I told her. “For heaven’s  sake, nothing inspiring. Just send me a good read.”

. I stayed up all night in my dim hospital room and  finished the book. My mind slightly dulled with various medications, I don’t  really remember it well, but I remember having a whopping good time.

I also don’t want to hear about the statistics. I know the  statistics. Besides, people in general are funny about statistics. I have a  friend who refuses to go out on Memorial Day or the Fourth of July until the  traffic fatalities predicted for his area have been met. “It’s safe now,” he’ll  say.

There have been too many people who made me feel as if I have a  neon sign on my forehead. CANCER, it flashes. CANCER, CANCER. Assuming the  person who has just come up with a statement of unthinking ineptitude means  well, the only good answer I have heard to any of these statements is the one  suggested by my daughter: to smile benignly and say, “Thank you so much for  sharing.”

Does all of this mean there is nothing that can be said? Of course  not. So what could people have said to me that would make me feel their support?  The simplest is often the best. I was touched by an acquaintance who hesitated a  moment, then said, “I wish you the best.”

But the most heartfelt response I received was from a friend who  said succinctly, “That stinks.”

Articles

A multiple myeloma survivor talks about how friends reacted to her diagnosis.

Sandra Winicur

My Uncle Died of That

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