5 or 6 things you should not say to someone who's living with cancer.

Some people who are living with cancer don't like to talk about it.  I heard someone on TV a few days ago who refused to answer questions about her cancer because she didn't want to be defined by her illness.  That's certainly an understandable attitude, though it's not one that I share (or I wouldn't be doing this blog).  I don't think cancer defines me any more than being gay or left-handed does.  But it is significant.  One morning on April 13, 2010, I was living one kind of life; one telephone call later, my whole life had changed.

So, too, I've discovered a variety of responses to my illness.  The most surprising to me are people who I assume know but who say nothing.  Perhaps they don't know.  Should I bring the subject up?  Are they indifferent?  Embarrassed?  At the other extreme, there are those who ask extremely personal questions, which I'll usually answer for close friends.  I'm happiest when people just want to discuss it matter-of-factly and then move on.  I realize, though, that it's often a difficult or awkward position for the other person.  Still, occasionally, there have been people who say things that seem so strange or inappropriate that I have no idea how to respond.  Think of it as adults say the darnedest things--or perhaps as dumb and dumber.  For example,

My dentist after a regular cleaning: "Do we even need to make another appointment?"

The same dentist six months later when I did have another cleaning, explaining why I had to take a massive dose of antibiotics beforehand:  "We're just being overly cautious, but when you kick [his word], it's more impressive if it says 'cancer' and not 'dental hygiene.'"

After the surgery in May, a very nice physical therapist came to the house twice a week.  Once, however, her supervisor came to check on the progress.  She talked for thirty minutes, but didn't do any exercises.  When she was ready to leave, I asked why we hadn't.  She said, "Oh, your prognosis isn't all that great, so I figured you should just enjoy the time you have left."

A secretary (Washburn still uses that designation) with tears in her eyes: "I'm sorry, it's just that you look awful.  You look so much weaker than the last time I saw you."  (If I didn't look awful before--and I wasn't aware that I did--I probably did afterwards.)  The next time I saw her, she was smiling and said, "You look really good."  (Great.  Stop there.)  "You look so much better than the last time I saw you."  (Good.  Let's stop now.)  "The last time you looked like you were at death's door."  (Oh-oh.  Too late.)

Once in a while, I have brunch or dinner with a small group of people with whom I have almost nothing in common; it's a tradition of sorts, though a strange one.  The last time, one guy spent 90 minutes complaining.  When he had the floor, he complained.  When he didn't have the floor, he interrupted everyone else in order to complain some more.  After the meal, he pulled me aside to say, "Since you won't be around to come to my funeral, I just want you to know that I've never been happier in my life."

And finally, at a poetry reading at the university, a student whose mother I've known for a long time said, "I heard about your cancer, but my mom said it's ok.  You had a good life."  A young colleague who was sitting next to me said, "He's still alive, you know!"  But the student was off to spread more cheer.  His comment clearly bothered my friend because that night I got two texts about what he'd said, both including the word 'dumbass.'