Blog: Chit Chat With Cancer Muggles

When they say their cousin cured their cancer without drugs, take a beat, swallow your rage, and say, “Wow, that’s lucky for them!” then locate the nearest exit or party guest.

When they say, “How is that possible? You are the healthiest eater I know,” take a breath and grin thank you, and if feeling generous, add, “Well, at least I don’t have to change my lifestyle very much”–although that second half is only a half-truth.

When they ask, “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”– and they mean it from a place of curiosity and not fix it mode, take a breath and say, yes, “Of course,” and then let it rip, explaining in great detail about emptying the contents of an ileostomy bag full of undigested food or how fissures make you feel like pooping glass.  

This is also a terrific tact to use without someone who is asking too many questions and is armed with a basket of unsolicited suggestions. 

When the doctor tells you you just need to move more and eat less to lose those 15 extra pounds, don’t smile and say, “You’re right, doc.” Or whine, “But I’ve tried that already with little success. Instead, say, “Perhaps you should run labs on my thyroid or see what else could be the root cause of the problem.”

And when the well-meaning nutritionist tells you just to eat more fruits, nuts, and raw veggies, and them for their email and tell them you’ll send them a copy of your Colorectal Cancer Cookbook when it’s published so they can be more helpful to the next shmo in my shoes who comes to them.

And come to think of it, when anyone, anywhere, says JUST to describe anything about cancer, side effects, or a missing prescription that Optum forgets to autofill, gently but firmly point out that JUST is an awfully condescending term. Perhaps the word they were looking for was something else.

When they say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, ask them to show you their scars or the pill cases and other gear they carry in their purses to support their stronger lifestyle.

The questions will never end, but hopefully, our answers will likely stop them in their tracks.

I initially wrote this piece, based on the poem The Art of Disappearing by Naomi Shaub, in my wild writing group while undergoing cancer treatment in 2020. If I hadn’t had a supportive, nonjudgemental space to express what was coming up for me during that time, I don’t think I would have been able to process my emotions and setbacks as well.

You can also read my blog post, Waltzing With Cancer, about radically accepting my diagnosis and Nobody Wants to Suffer, which I also wrote in my wild writing group at UCSF.