Womens Health Magazine:
11/1/11 http://www.womenshealthmag.com/health/helping-a-friend-with-cancer?page=1.
How to Help a Friend with Cancer
Four ways to help a friend with cancer treatments -- even if it scares the crap around you
Kelly Corrigan
Play Godfather.
Back in the '70s, Marlon Brando delivered the line "I'm going to make him an offer he can't refuse," which is now the motto of all self-respecting mobsters and salesmen -- and is also a good rule of thumb for the friend of the breast cancer patient.
Back in the '70s, Marlon Brando delivered the line "I'm going to make him an offer he can't refuse," which is now the motto of all self-respecting mobsters and salesmen -- and is also a good rule of thumb for the friend of the breast cancer patient.
An example of an offer that can't be refused (which is the opposite of saying "Please let me know if there's something I can do") was when my friend Katy sneaked over the week before Halloween to decorate and brought a jack-o'-lantern, a couple bags of Snickers, even fuzzy fake bats. If Katy had called to ask if I needed anything, I probably wouldn't have asked her to carve a pumpkin for me and stretch cobwebs on the bushes. But when what you need is a normal life, it's hard to put it into words. Which is why I loved Katy's gesture -- for the simple reason that it meant my kids didn't have to have a mom who was sick and miss out on Halloween too.
Add life.
Remember in E.T. when the potted flowers turn brown and die? Cell warfare doesn't leave much time for chores like scrubbing the bathtub or weeding. So where my flower beds used to sing out to me about the exuberance of life, during my treatment they became an unavoidable symbol of decay.
What can I say? Cancer turns everyday things into existential symbols. Dirty laundry, dust bunnies, and empty refrigerators quickly become images of disorder and loss of control. So snip off spent blossoms, water her plants. Drop a bag of groceries on her front porch. If you can swing it cash-wise, send over a housecleaner -- preferably on a chemo day so she has no choice but to accept.
Say anything.
If you're still hesitant to reach out, remember: Simple, even cliche, is totally fine. "I'm thinking of you" never gets old. "That cancer doesn't have a chance against you" is empowering. "I'm rooting for you" feels good.
Some of the most fortifying messages were from friends I hadn't seen in forever or people I'd recently met. And I particularly appreciated the cards I got once treatment was well under way and the game started to drag a bit. It took me the better part of a year to get rid of that tumor, and every time I looked up in the stands, even in months 7 and 8, there they were: a handful of devoted fans, on their feet, who weren't leaving until the ref lifted my arm in victory.
Whatever you do, don't let the idea of perfection stop you. Sure, there's a card out there that's just right, but if you can't find it, or you lose it, an e-mail works too. And I promise you, generic vanilla wafers, given with love, taste just like the real thing.
Add life.
Remember in E.T. when the potted flowers turn brown and die? Cell warfare doesn't leave much time for chores like scrubbing the bathtub or weeding. So where my flower beds used to sing out to me about the exuberance of life, during my treatment they became an unavoidable symbol of decay.
What can I say? Cancer turns everyday things into existential symbols. Dirty laundry, dust bunnies, and empty refrigerators quickly become images of disorder and loss of control. So snip off spent blossoms, water her plants. Drop a bag of groceries on her front porch. If you can swing it cash-wise, send over a housecleaner -- preferably on a chemo day so she has no choice but to accept.
Say anything.
If you're still hesitant to reach out, remember: Simple, even cliche, is totally fine. "I'm thinking of you" never gets old. "That cancer doesn't have a chance against you" is empowering. "I'm rooting for you" feels good.
Some of the most fortifying messages were from friends I hadn't seen in forever or people I'd recently met. And I particularly appreciated the cards I got once treatment was well under way and the game started to drag a bit. It took me the better part of a year to get rid of that tumor, and every time I looked up in the stands, even in months 7 and 8, there they were: a handful of devoted fans, on their feet, who weren't leaving until the ref lifted my arm in victory.
Whatever you do, don't let the idea of perfection stop you. Sure, there's a card out there that's just right, but if you can't find it, or you lose it, an e-mail works too. And I promise you, generic vanilla wafers, given with love, taste just like the real thing.
Avoid comparisons.
You know, like: "My friend's neighbor's sister had breast cancer 5 years ago and now she kayaks to work and competes in kickboxing!" Every case has elements that make chemo more or less effective, that make surgery more or less imperative, that make survival more or less probable.
You know, like: "My friend's neighbor's sister had breast cancer 5 years ago and now she kayaks to work and competes in kickboxing!" Every case has elements that make chemo more or less effective, that make surgery more or less imperative, that make survival more or less probable.
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