Whining and gratitude

OK, so I've caught a cold -- now I'm REALLY allowed to whine. Not a bad one, so far, and I haven't had one in such a long time, I've forgotten what it feels like. But on top of an irritated underarm drain, stinging suture staples and back pain that won't allow me to stand up for longer than 10 minutes, it's making me cross.

I was more than cross last night, after reading some scary things about the prognosis for the type of breast cancer I probably have (recently coined "triple-negative," which sounds good but isn't). Just can't go there. An old friend listened to me cry on the phone, bless her, and said all the right things. What makes me laugh is the number of times someone has said to me in the past two weeks, "You're taking this amazingly well! You have such a great attitude!" I think I have managed to be pretty cheery most of the time, but there are moments when it's all a bit much.

What do you say to someone who has cancer? Damned if I know, and I'm certain that the number of boneheaded remarks I've made to the sick people in my life would qualify me for a foot-in-mouth award, and the ways in which I've tried to be helpful that probably weren't helpful at all are numerous. While in a hospital waiting room recently, I picked up a copy of Homemakers' Christmas issue, which contained a frank and useful article by Lesley Young called "How to Help a Friend Who Has Cancer." I have encountered many of the same responses Young has, and I don't react the same way she does to all of them -- it's an individual thing, and much depends on the kind of day you're having, what concern is weighing on you at that moment, your relationship with the speaker, how advanced your disease is, and, I've discovered, the quality of email correspondence. For example, unlike Young, I love it when people tell me positive cancer stories, about people who defied the odds and outlived the predictions, etc.

But like her, I could do without some responses. I've experienced the person who makes helping me all about him/her instead of about me; the close friend who seems to simply pretend nothing is happening and never mentions it or even calls; the friend who, in the face of an inaccurate diagnosis, blames me for exaggerating rather than my doctors for screwing up; the friend who imposes on me when I can least afford the energy to respond; the friend who scares the daylights out of me by commenting in grave tones on how dire my prognosis is; the acquaintance who runs into me on the street and, with a surprised look on their face, says something like: "So...you're...you're...still..." as though they didn't expect to encounter me walking above ground. In all of these cases, I believe the individuals' reactions reflect, among many other things, concern for me and fear of losing me. And for that I am grateful. And, as mentioned above, I am the last person who should be casting the first stone.

I used to think that if I got cancer I'd tell no one, because I didn't want people to be kind to me just because I was a cancer patient, or just to assuage their guilt or build up their altruistic resumé. I wanted people to want to be with me because I was charming and fun and intelligent. Of course, the very idea of my telling no one is a laugh and a half; I'm not a very private person, and because I'm alone I need help. But since my friend Adele died (see my article on what I learned from her), I am more realistic about people's need to give, my need to ask for assistance, the way illness reminds people of their own mortality and sense of family and community, as well as the way time slips away from us unless occasional crises remind us that no one is here forever. Giving and receiving involve a complex dance, with myriad motivations; being part of that dance makes us human. I've let a lot of people into my life, in place of having one intimate relationship; that arrangement has its drawbacks, but also brings great gifts.

Speaking of gifts, how's this for a Pollyanna moment: a Canada Post truck pulled up to my house a couple of days ago and delivered a strange round package from a person in Ponoka, Alberta, whose name was unfamiliar. "Who do I know in Ponoka?" I asked myself. It came with a pink-ribboned card explaining that the sender was the niece of my best friend's mother, who is 87 and recently had surgery for breast cancer. She lives on a horse farm near another small town, in northern Alberta. She had asked her niece to send me what's called a prayer shawl; the Ponoka United Church "Yarners" knit shawls for people with cancer, apparently; the card included a heartfelt poem containing lots of good wishes. The small-town community-oriented girl in me was delighted to see people doing such a thoughtful thing, but I was a little apprehensive when I opened the package. I'm not much of a shawl wearer, and I'm picky about clothes, especially colours (I don't wear light ones). Even something that might be quite nice for someone else would undoubtedly be the wrong colour for me. But I needn't have worried -- the shawl is gorgeous: a nubby yarn in a deep dusty rose and browny-grey mix, which perfectly matches my bedroom and feels warm and cozy around my shoulders. I put it on and didn't take it off until bedtime. It brings a little piece of small-town Alberta into my home, something that's dear to me since I've spent a great deal of time out there. And it's now vainly trying to absorb my violent sneezes.

Another, more shocking PM: Diane spent the afternoon doing eight months' worth of my ironing -- she enjoys it! Or so she said.