Riding for Roses

I received a terrific note from a friend the other day. It expressed compactly a number of feelings that I want to comment on. So I asked his permission to post the text and let it age in my mind a little bit to develop more reactions.

I recently started an email campaign to friends and business contacts asking the to donate to support cancer survivors and my friend donated generously. A few days later, he sent an email that started like this:

I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch. I read your previous emails but couldn’t bring myself to respond. I know that must seem cold, but it was more out of denial than anything else. I had no idea how to respond when I heard about Spencer’s diagnosis, so I closed up instead of writing back. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.

My immediate reaction is actually, no, that doesn’t seem cold at all. It’s an incredibly common reaction when one hears someone has been diagnosed with cancer, or any serious disease. I’ve had it myself. I’m sure I’ll have it again. For me, it starts out with “I don’t know what to say.” and then moves into “It’s been so long since I heard I would be embarrassed to say something now” and then hangs as a lingering guilt. Let’s work backwards through that list. There is no need to be guilty, this is a normal reaction. My saying there is no need to be guilty naturally won’t change anything. The most I can do is say “apology accepted” and possibly “no apology needed,” but the latter denies the validity of the guilt while the former just acknowledges it and moves on. OK, so we’re not going to solve the guilt problem this way, let’s go back a step. You do not ever need to be embarrassed about sending me (or any other caregiver or a person with cancer) a note that is “late”. We’re either still dealing with the cancer, thrilled at being done dealing with it, or in the worst case (and hopefully never for us) grieving over a lost loved one. No matter when I hear from a friend, it’s still awesome to hear from someone who was somehow touched by Spencer or what I’ve written about him. Notes, phone calls, hugs, and general well-wishing I get keep me energized. It is remarkably empowering knowing that people out there – family, friends, and strangers – care enough to say something, whenever they say it. Let’s go back the last step: what do you say? Anything. Say “I’m sorry.” Say “Call me if you need help.” Say “I’ll take care of the kids so you can have a night out.” Come and just sit. Chuck Freeman, my minister, came and just sat with me the night we got Spencer’s diagnosis. Spencer was asleep. I was tired, wired, and terrified. I think we talked a little, but mostly it was relieving to have some non-hospital-staff company to just be with me.

I have a secret coping technique. It’s a public secret. I mentioned my trick here a while ago. Every once in a while, I dig through my list of contacts and find someone I haven’t contacted in a while and send an email or make a phone call (usually it’s an email since I usually do it in the wee hours of the morning and don’t have that many friends in appropriate time zones to call when it’s 1 AM in Texas). It’s a combination of a little lifeline for me and a little rebuilding of relationships with friends from far away. Inevitably, I get a wonderful email back, sometimes within minutes, sometimes it takes weeks. It is always appreciated.

For example, the email I got from my friend continued:

Last week, when I reread your the story of you shaving your head again, I smiled at the sweetness of your gesture, chuckled at the mental image of you with a bald head, and finally broke down into fits of sobbing for Spencer. I don’t know what I can do, but my heart goes out to you and your family. Please don’t hesitate to ask for anything if you need it.

Skipping right over the egoboo that someone is not only reading what I spew, but taking the time to reread it later, this is exactly what I was talking about above. Knowing that people care enough to read what is here, think about Spencer, feel this way, and respond, is like a light shining into our lives.

Thanks and keep those cards and letters coming.