The second she said, “I’m sitting in the doctor’s office, on the crinkly paper,” it was like my brain stopped reading the rest of her message. Instantly, I was transported back to my moment—sitting in that same sterile space, not in my own familiar clothes, but in a dignity-stripping paper gown.
The vulnerability was staggering. I was almost afraid to move, as if doing so might use up the last bit of oxygen in the room—and I would suffocate in my own fear. I sat frozen, waiting to hear what would become of me. Was this the “big deal” I’d feared all along? Or something less terrifying? Was this just the infamous “bump in the road” people so casually talk about?
I’ve always found that phrase unsettling. “Just a bump in the road” is something said by people not truly in the know. When someone says, “We think you have cancer,” so many things stop getting the consideration they deserve—your fear, your confusion, your grief, your hope.
I snapped out of the memory and came back to her message. I sent her comfort. I told her I would walk beside her. To reach out to me, anytime. And I meant it. Others had once told me those same words, and they helped carry me through the nightmare of hearing: “Yes, you do have cancer.”
I’m often asked by people, “My friend was just diagnosed—what should I say?”
And I tell them this:
Be physically present. Speak as little as possible. Listen—and you will know how to help.