Coping with Cancer - Empathy

Hello from planet cancer. It’s nearing the end of the second stage chemotherapy and the side effects have started to take their toll. The novelty of having working saliva glands, energy, a stomach lining and fingers that aren’t like popsicles will not go unnoticed at the end.

Luckily for us, not a day goes by when people don’t remind cancer patients of our incredible bravery or eulogise us for our capacity to get out of bed in the morning. For those with unfashionable conditions like gout, MS or schizophrenia the reaction is usually polite ignorance or mild disgust – but for cancer patients there is a big hug and a 10k run laid on in our honour. We are lucky. Everyone feels for us.

In today’s blog I want to share the empathy that has been offered to me in the last few months. Some it has been really nice and has really helped me through some tough times. And some of it...has been slightly less effective.

Good empathy

‘The cancer hasn’t spread. You’ll need chemotherapy to remove any trace. You’ll be able to live a completely normal life.’ (My cancer nurse, three hours after my surgeon had pretty much told me my life was over)

‘If you feel sick, take drugs. If you have diarrhoea, take drugs. If you feel depressed, get drunk or take drugs.’ (An oncology nurse, who is my new best friend)

‘I had chemo. Used to go on a 50 mile cycle every weekend. It was hard and I couldn’t feel my hands, but I still did it.’ (A friend of a friend, who is now successfully through chemotherapy)

‘There’s no way chemo can be as bad as the last six miles of a marathon.’ (Matt Buck, putting chemo into perspective)

‘Don't give up, ever. No matter how low or challenging it gets make the goal relative to today's circumstance not yesterday's performance (Eduardo Garcia, who is my new hero)

‘You shouldn’t have eaten those mint humbugs.’ (My unsympathetic partner, on receiving news of tumour diagnosis)

Bad empathy

‘I had a 38 year-old man come in yesterday - marathon runner, no symptoms, whole life ahead of him. Very sad.’ (Royal Surrey surgeon, Dr Khalifa - AKA Dr Doom - writing my death sentence in the hospital corridor next to my bed)

‘We all die. It could happen any time. My wife had cancer and she went, just like that.’ (Dr Doom again)

‘You don’t need to bother paying into your pension anymore then?’ (An unnamed work colleague, reviewing the details of my cancer diagnosis)

‘My mother has bowel cancer just like you. She’s dead now.’ (Another unnamed work colleague)

‘Its like a bad dream. In 6 months you’ll wake up and it’ll be like it never happened.’ (My friend, not making the chemo process seem any easier)

‘Maybe it was the running that gave you cancer. You should try yoga instead.’ (A friend, who is also a research scientist, mistaking running for high level obesity)

‘I know how you feel. I’m always cold too.’ (Another unnamed work colleague)

The good empathy has kept going. At a time when I could have fallen into a pit of depression and paranoia it has kept me afloat. The jokes have helped me feel good about living in the present and the positivity has given me confidence to believe in a healthy future. Even the bad empathy has kept me amused, and I know that everyone had their heart in the right place.

There is one comment, however, that was more comforting than all the others put together.

‘Just keep breathing.’

I know it sounds somewhat ridiculous, but at its heart it’s saying a very important thing:

‘Remember, you’re still alive. However bad it gets, however much you might suffer, you’re still just a normal human being. Keep breathing. You’re still you.’

Through all the worst moments - my diagnosis, my surgery, nights of pain, days of sickness - this kept me sane. Whatever happened, whatever cancer hit me with, I would take a moment, focus on my breathing, and everything would seem okay.

If life’s getting on top of you, try it sometime. It really does help.

Or just get drunk and take drugs.

Until next time.

Ben

Next week: Halloween special. Chemo fancy dress, acupuncture and some gross scar photos.