Follow Leanne Coppen's brave fight against breast cancer as she blogs candidly throughout the month of October - about the ups and downs of treatment, kinship and reflection. In turn, share how breast cancer has impacted your life. Draw comfort and inspiration from our vibrant, supportive sisterhood of women whose lives have been touched by the disease.
I have a high tolerance for pain. Anyone who knows me well – family members, doctors, estheticians – will confirm this. My husband and I agree: I am tough. Not French Foreign Legion tough, but maybe Canadian Special Forces tough.
However, for the last 12 hours and, to a lesser extent, for 48 hours before that, I’ve been enduring wave after wave of intense abdominal pain. I emit weird primal noises and make fists and kick one foot around like a dog dreaming of chasing rabbits… And then the pain passes and, like a crazy person, I type some more.
It’s the drugs – my hitherto mild-mannered capecitabine and lapatinib are now mercilessly kicking my butt. Causing stomach cramps, intestinal cramps, nasty, painful, crampity-cramps and no small measure of the trotskys… If it were possible to be punched in the solar plexus and kneed in the nuts while in labour, that’s how I feel.
I have a hot water bottle pressed against my stomach at all times. My husband makes them so hot they have to be wrapped in gigantic towels for the first couple of hours. I may have poached my innards. Don’t care – the relief is glorious.
My mom is now here, taking over where my husband left off when he went to work this morning. She has fed me mashed bananas and electrolytes and soda crackers. She is busy in the kitchen now – I can hear her over my own weird primal noises; the comforting sound of her clattering around down there.
Another wave is coming. I really need to stop with the typing. Viva Imodium! Charge!
A few weeks ago, Georgia and my mom and I all participated in a commercial for a fundraising campaign for the Gattuso Rapid Diagnostic Centre at Princess Margaret Hospital in Toronto.
We had fun doing it and I’m a big supporter of the whole idea behind the Rapid Diagnostic Centre — that being to cut down the wait time between testing and diagnosis to one day. Yes, just one. Not the several agonizing weeks it usually takes. Imagine taking that excruciating time-warped endless agony of wondering if you have cancer and smacking it right down to size? Waiting for results is like your standard what’s-behind-the-door horror film scene: no matter what’s hiding behind that door, the scariest part is the eerie music and the slow, creeping, spine-tingling approach to the unknown evil lurking in the dark. I always have to fast-forward through those scenes. And basically that’s what the Gattuso Center will do for that slow, creeping, terrifying approach to the great unknown of a cancer diagnosis.
Of course it won’t always be good news behind that door. But, like in the movies, at least once you’ve seen the monster, you can start figuring out how to destroy it.
You can view the commercial here (at http://www.pmhf.ca/)
You’d think having breast cancer would give me some idea of how to react or what to say when I hear that someone I know has cancer, but it doesn’t seem to work like that. I’m still sometimes just as mute and aghast as the next guy. But — at the risk of paralyzing you further when you are next faced with talking to someone with cancer — I can help with what not to say. Here are some pointers:
1. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” Please, make an effort. Use your imagination. And above all, don’t be dismissive of the person’s legitimate right to feel totally freaked out. Cancer is serious business. It’s Darth Vader, the Bogeyman and weird Haitian voodoo hexes all rolled into one. Let’s respect the fear, but nurture the hope. Try telling the person that you’re sending her prayers/energy/good mojo/whatever. Plagiarize — grab a quote from someone she’s inspired by (Winston Churchill’s “Keep buggering on” works for me.) Or, if you can pull it off, make her laugh, like my friend Ben did when he said: “I can’t believe it picked you… I feel sorry for the cancer.”
2. “My cousin had cancer and she never missed a day of work, even when she was having chemo.” Well, la-tee-da! I hate her already. This is called Lance Armstronging. We are not all going to win the Tour de France 150 times during our cancer treatment. I do understand the intention to show by example what is possible; that a person can beat her cancer and it need not even slow her down, rah rah sis boom bah. But go gently, brave cheerleader, if you’re going this route. Avoid Lance Armstronging.
3. “You should try a macrobiotic diet/seeing my guru/eating all your meals while standing on your head/etc.” There are many things outside of conventional medicine that can have amazing results. If you want to suggest something that might involve a big change for a person with cancer, remember that she might be trying just about everything she can manage already. You can inadvertently set her up to feel like she’s not really “fighting” if she doesn’t take your advice and meditate with a Shaman in Goa. If you passionately believe in a certain remedy, try an open-ended approach: “If you’re not really into talking about this let me know, but I heard of something I wanted to share with you, and you can feel free to take it or leave it.”
4. “You have to beat this for your daughter/son/kids.” Oh really? Because I wasn’t already lying awake at night in a cold sweat, just praying I’m going to see my child’s 10th birthday/bar mitzvah/wedding. But thanks for pointing it out, and adding that extra layer of self-blame if my next test results aren’t so hot… I know that this sort of statement is intended to get the person to draw on her inner parental love-power and pull through for the sake of her kids, and yep, that ferocious love is a pretty potent force. Nobody, sick or healthy, wants to imagine not being there as their children grow up. Sadly, you can do everything in your power to beat cancer and still not win – but is that because you didn’t love your kids enough?
5. “I read a study that said __________.” Please see recent blog posts on the dangers of interpreting statistics and studies. If you read something that is interesting or that you think is important, tread very carefully when bringing it up with someone who has cancer. Even if you’re a doctor, your information – or misinformation – can have a huge psychological impact, and not always for the better.
6. “Think of cancer as a gift/lesson/opportunity.” Let me ask you this, oh spewer of bunk, which kind of gift would you prefer: a bracelet/flowers/spa treatment… OR a disease that robs you of your health, job, hair, vitality, fertility and possibly your life? Need some time to think it over? Let me tell you what I would choose: not to have cancer ever again anymore for the rest of my life. That is a gift. However… there was a woman I knew and admired and loved like a second mom, and she used to refer to her cancer as “a gift wrapped in barbed wire.” This acknowledged that the experience of cancer did bring many positive things (inner strength, deep connections with other people, perspective on life – whatever) but that it was painful and hurtful and excruciating to get to those things. So in Mary Sue’s honour, I will allow this: if you really, really insist on suggesting that cancer is a gift, please emphasize that its one that comes wrapped in barbed wire and rolled around in a lot of crap, resembling a giant, spiky and foul-smelling truffle.
7. “Should you be having that glass of wine / cheeseburger / Marlboro Light / triple sundae with chocolate sauce / tequila body shot?” (Gosh, that does sound like a good time, doesn’t it??) OK, we all know that there are things that aren’t good for us; things that studies show are linked to different cancers; things that we should avoid. Personally, when I indulge in these sorts of things from time to time I do so because I want to feel normal. Because they make me happy. Because I’ve had a bad day, dammit. Whatever the reason, I probably already know I shouldn’t be indulging, and I probably don’t need you to call me on it. My standard line is always, “You just worry about yourself, I’ve already got cancer.”
8. “Stay positive, it’s all in the attitude.” Before you say this, consider: Have you ever tried staying positive when all your hair falls out and you’re afraid of dying? Actually, this statement is not necessarily a no-no, but it’s a really tough call, because while keeping a positive attitude is important, it’s not necessarily going to affect your longevity. Apparently it’s authenticity that counts – feeling what you’re feeling when you feel it. Nobody can be positive all the time, so why should someone with cancer be able to constantly maintain a chipper outlook? Instead of telling someone her health depends on her positive attitude, just try doing what you can to make her life easier when she’s feeling like crap.
9. “We didn’t invite you because we thought you wouldn’t be up to it.” Don’t. Ever. Do. This. Always invite the person with cancer even if you know she’s bed-ridden. Make sure she knows that there’s no pressure to attend, but that you wanted her to know she’s included anyway. Keep inviting her to everything you would if she weren’t sick – the block party, the girls’ lunch, the political rally, the tarts-and-vicars soirée – everything. Let it be her choice if she can make it or not. You’ll be making her feel that she’s still part of the world; still herself. And besides, you never know when she might actually be up for one of these events.
10. “So-and-so said that getting your kind of cancer at your age is the worst because it means your chances of survival are terrible, and I was like, Oh this is so upsetting, why are you telling me this??” Why indeed, would anyone ever tell anyone that? Why would someone then recount it to the person with said “terrible chances of survival?” Yet someone really did say this to me once, without even realizing what she was saying. And I love her still, in spite of it.
I guess I wanted to end with that one to make the point that you can’t really say the wrong thing if your heart is in the right place. I mean, you can obviously (and quite spectacularly!) but it’s not the end of the world. And it shouldn’t be the end of a friendship. Love is clumsy sometimes. There’s no perfect thing to say, because everyone is different, and everyone’s cancer is different. Maybe the best approach is “I love you and I hate that you have to go through this, but I’m here for you.”
And then don’t forget to actually be there.
In my humble opinion this is an ad for people whose lives have been hit with the cancer stick. I like the personification of cancer in this ad because the experience of cancer can indeed feel like living under violent dictatorship, or being stalked by a serial killer. The anger and hatred expressed towards cancer in this ad is palpable – and a refreshing change from the heart-wrenching, super-depressing imagery of helplessness and victimhood that you so often see in materials related to cancer. Not that it won’t make you cry like a schoolgirl; just makes you do so with clenched fists.
And then – waaaayyyy on the other end of the spectrum – there’s this PSA, which, if I may say, is an ad for people who have no frikking idea. Like seriously, not even the faint and fluttering beginnings of a clue. The target viewer for this one seems to be a Maxim-magazine reader with no breast cancer risk factors and a permanent woody. Who doesn’t do his own laundry. Might still live with his parents. But, I guess if he’s into supporting breast cancer, he’s ok by me.
And one more – just in case you are under the mistaken impression that I’ve got something against things that are immature, kind of gross and involve bikini-clad models – check out this effective messaging about skin cancer.
Takes all kinds to beat cancer.
Speaking of chutzpah… and if we weren’t, we are now… a lady named Helen recently wrote in asking if I could help her find a pattern for knitted breasts for her 86 year-old sister. That’s right, knitted breasts. For her 86 year-old sister.
Helen wrote: “My sister who is 86 has breast cancer and is booked for surgery Nov.2 As she was waiting in the office she noticed a web site that she could get a pattern for a knitted breast which she would like to obtain but I can’t seem to find it. Would you be so kind as to e-mail it to me or tell me were I can get it.”
Well, honestly, who could resist a request like that? I went website spelunking and I am happy to say that I think I’ve found the pattern in question. The knitted breasts are called “Tit Bits” and the pattern can be found on an adorable website called knitty.com — complete with accompanying poignant and funny story written by the witty titty knitter herself. Click here to check it out.
All strength and courage to Helen’s 86 year-old sister – may her surgery be successful and may she wear her knitted breasts with pride, comfort, and style!
TitBits photo from knitty.com
