There should honestly be a handbook for how to talk to sick people.
Not because people are cruel most of the time. Usually they’re uncomfortable. They panic in the silence and start grabbing for whatever sentence sounds hopeful, spiritual, motivational, or vaguely inspired by a Facebook quote from 2014.
And somehow it always lands on the person with cancer like a brick.
I’ve had people say things to me that genuinely made me stare at the wall afterward wondering if we had both participated in the same conversation.
“At least it’s the good kind.”
What does that even mean?
I would love for someone to explain what the fun kind of cancer is. The luxury edition. The VIP package. Because from where I’m sitting, all of this still sucks.
“Everything happens for a reason.”
Okay. I’m listening. What’s the reason for losing pieces of your body, your energy, your plans, your privacy, your fertility, your hair, your independence, and sometimes your future before you’re even thirty?
People say this sentence because they need suffering to make sense. But not everything meaningful is meaningful because it happened. Some things are just painful.
“You’re so strong.”
Usually said immediately after I’ve admitted I’m not okay.
The truth is most sick people are not choosing strength the way everyone thinks they are. We’re adapting because the alternative is collapsing in the middle of Walgreens.
“Just stay positive.”
I have noticed people love positivity when they’re not the ones being poisoned every few weeks.
Sometimes positivity just becomes another job sick people are expected to perform so everyone else feels less uncomfortable around us.
“My aunt had that and she’s fine now.”
I know people mean well when they say this, but cancer is not one-size-fits-all. You can’t compare one person’s diagnosis to another like we’re reviewing restaurants.
Also sometimes people tell these stories before I’ve even finished explaining what type or stage I have.
And then there’s the other version.
“I knew someone who died from that.”
Thank you so much for bringing that directly into the conversation like you’re contributing valuable information instead of handing me a new fear to carry around at 2 a.m.
People say this stuff so casually too. Like they’re telling you about a restaurant that closed down.
“You don’t look sick.”
Thank you, I guess?
What people usually mean is:
“You still look normal enough to make me comfortable.”
Because if I looked exactly as sick as I felt, half these conversations wouldn’t even happen.
“God only gives hard battles to strong people.”
I know this comforts some people, so I’m not trying to mock faith.
But sometimes I want to ask why God’s strongest soldiers are always exhausted, bald, throwing up, and arguing with insurance companies on hold for three hours.
“Maybe stress caused it.”
Perfect. Amazing. Love that for me.
Not only do I have cancer, now apparently I also personally manifested it by answering too many emails or having anxiety.
“Have you tried cutting out sugar?”
Have you tried shutting the fuck up?
“You need to manifest healing.”
I promise you no amount of positive journaling was going to scare metastatic disease out of my body.
“I saw this girl on TikTok who cured hers naturally.”
I need people to understand that watching one wellness influencer drink chlorophyll water does not make you an oncologist.
“You can always adopt.”
People really say things about infertility like they’re offering substitute menu items at a restaurant.
Like grief is supposed to become easier because there’s technically another option available.
“I could never do what you do.”
Neither could I until I had no choice.
That’s the part people miss.
Most of us did not wake up one day inspired and brave and ready for our warrior arc. We were dragged here kicking and screaming and then expected to make everyone else comfortable about it.
“You’re inspiring.”
Sometimes that word makes my skin crawl.
Because a lot of the time what people actually mean is:
“You’re suffering in a way that makes me emotional.”
And somehow that gets translated into inspiration instead of grief.
“Maybe this is teaching you something.”
Yeah. It’s teaching me how many medications can fit into one kitchen drawer.
“You just need to fight harder.”
This one is dangerous because it quietly suggests people who die just didn’t fight enough.
Cancer is biology. Not a mindset competition.
“Miracles happen.”
They do.
But statistically, so do funerals. And sick people are usually painfully aware of both.
“But you’re going to beat this.”
I know people say this because they want to hand you certainty. But sometimes it feels less like comfort and more like they’re asking you to participate in their denial.
“Don’t say things like that.”
People only like honesty about illness when it sounds hopeful.
The second you talk openly about fear, prognosis, exhaustion, or death, everyone starts trying to shove the words back into your mouth.
“Everybody dies eventually.”
This sentence has never comforted a single person in human history.
“At least cancer made you appreciate life.”
Honestly? Cancer mostly made me appreciate nausea meds, clean sheets, steroids when the swelling gets bad, and the rare days my body feels remotely predictable.
“You were doing so well.”
This one hurts more than people realize.
Because sometimes “doing well” just means I smiled that day. Or wore makeup. Or answered texts. Or managed to exist publicly for a few hours before going home and completely falling apart.
“You just need to get out more.”
People act like fresh air is going to personally fistfight metastatic disease on my behalf.
“Have you tried going gluten free?”
At this point I could probably survive entirely off the amount of unsolicited medical advice I’ve received.
“You need to think more positively.”
Again, positivity is not chemotherapy.
“You’re too young for all this.”
Correct. That is actually part of what makes it so horrifying.
“Everything will work out.”
Will it?
Because sometimes “working out” just means learning how to survive things you never should’ve had to survive in the first place.
“Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.”
I am begging people to stop disguising blessings as catastrophic illness.
“I don’t know how you do it.”
Most days I don’t either.
I just wake up, take the pills, go to the appointments, survive the side effects, try to hold onto pieces of myself, and repeat it all again the next morning.
That’s not bravery all the time.
Sometimes it’s just survival with good Wi-Fi and a prescription bottle.
If you’ve ever been on the receiving end of these conversations, I think you know most people mean well. But good intentions don’t always make painful things feel less painful.
Sometimes sick people do not need silver linings.
Sometimes we do not need positivity.
Sometimes we do not need miracle stories or unsolicited advice or comparisons.
Sometimes we just need someone to sit beside us without trying to rewrite what’s happening.
And if you’re here reading this, thank you for sitting in the mess with me for a little while.
Thank you for reading. If you’d like more honest writing about cancer, chronic illness, dark humor, grief, and life with Mojo, you can subscribe to Mojo & The Mess.
Leave a comment