When A Colleague Has Cancer: What To Say, Do And Give

Today is World Cancer Day. As a survivor (cervical cancer in 2004) I'm always asked for advice by panicked people when their work colleagues are stricken by the disease. What do you say and do? What presents are appropriate? What if you're afraid to visit them in the hospital because you can't handle it?


Cancer is the 300-pound gorilla in the room that nobody wants to talk about, least of all in the office. And that's perfectly understandable. Suffering and death aren't the most uplifting topics for water cooler chat. Being reminded of your own mortality isn't inspiring either. 


As a survivor, the reactions of colleagues to your condition are worthy of a psychological study. I had a full range of them: Disbelief, genuine concern and a strong desire to help; disbelief mixed with relief that they weren't the ones who had it; curiosity to the point of rubbernecking about how cancer looks like; sheer avoidance masking fear that they'd be next; commiseration that was a box to be briskly ticked on a laundry list of guilt. 


You gain a privileged view of the human psyche when you have cancer. Although it wasn't the best way to learn, I now know people on a deeper level because of what I went through.


But I digress. What would a cancer-stricken colleague truly appreciate from you? Here's a list of suggestions based on my experience:


Practical gestures that help with the daily business of life. A cancer patient will inevitably be worrying about the work sitting on the desk, invoices that need signing, emails that need to go out. Put together a list and assign people to take over each task. Tell the patient it's all being dealt with. It's one less worry for the battle ahead.


If you're close to the patient, personal gestures are also hugely appreciated. Cook up a batch of meals for the family and freeze them -- I can assure you there's no time or desire to cook. Pitch in every now and then to walk the dog or pick up the children. Anything that helps with the daily routine is a tremendous gift.


Flowers are fine unless there's a deluge of them. I received so many bouquets and floral arrangements the nurses at the Adventist Hospital thought I was the wife of a triad boss (Hong Kong's mafia). Although lovely, their scent -- especially after a few days, when the flowers ripened - made me queasy and all of them were donated to the chapel. 


Cancer patients have a heightened sense of smell when they're ill. A faint trace of perfume can bring about nausea. So choose your bouquets with care: No lilies or roses or anything that can overpower with scent. And if you're visiting, go easy on the Prada perfume. Better yet, wear no fragrance at all.


Choose reading material that is not too frivolous or too gloomy. I got a boatload of books and magazines in the hospital nearly daily. The chirpy people who were secretly afraid of getting cancer gave me Bergdorf Blondes and celebrity magazines. The people who were relieved they didn't get cancer gave me books that talked about accepting death calmly. I can tell you with completely authority that these publications were left unread.


When you've got cancer, you're really not interested in Jessica Simpson's fluctuating weight. You're worried about the next invasive procedure. And as you're fighting something that could potentially kill you, the last thing you want is a suggestion, no matter how well meant, that you may not make it. You'll deal with that with your doctors. You don't need to read it in a book.


So what strikes a good balance? Short books you can zip through with plots than can be picked up quickly after a nap are best. I recommend something like e by Matt Beaumont. The story of a UK ad agency told entirely through emails, it's short and wickedly funny without being frivolous.


For myself at least, I found books tedious. Especially long biographies because I dropped off to sleep every now and then from medication. I preferred movies. 


One of the best gifts I received was a portable DVD player with headphones. I watched M*A*S*H, Ab Fab, Fawlty Towers (a patient favourite, it was constantly borrowed) and any series I could get my hands on. When I was released from the hospital to recuperate at home, I watched all the James Bond movies ever made. 


If your colleague is sharing a hospital room with another patient and there's only one television, do realise that fights for TV channels and remote controls do happen. So a personal DVD player with headphones will make your colleague the envy of the entire cancer floor.


Schedule visits for the patient, not for you. Cancer is not pretty. Your colleague is not used to being seen in a hospital gown, at his or her worst. There are tubes, soiled linens and other unspeakable things to conceal. 


Ask when it's convenient for you to visit and have a chat. I was absolutely stunned to have people telling me when it fit their diary to visit instead of asking me when I'd like to have them over.


Be respectful of the patient and ask. Keep the visit short and sweet. If you sense  the patient's getting tired, it's time to go.


Express sympathy, support and hope without lecturing. Back then, I couldn't count how many well-meaning people would shriek at me in bed: "Think positive! You must think positive!" 


All I thought about was extracting the IV needles in my hand and plunging them into their eyeballs like in a John Woo movie. Think positive? You think positive when you're lying in bed with five tubes coming out of you and a prognosis that has you thinking of caskets.


Equally, the morose statement that got my goat was "Now, now, everything happens for a reason." Any noble reason behind my current sorry state of affairs isn't comforting given that I'm suffering. If I'm being groomed for sainthood, I'd really rather do it in a less painful way.


I was grateful whenever a colleague would come in and kick off the conversation with humour. "Now see what happens when you're out of the office? A complete, utter shambles, that's what." 


I also liked people who gracefully expressed hope in a tomorrow where my recovery was not an option, but a certainty. One of the best was a conspiratorial "When you're done with this, there's a fab new restaurant we should try. But why even wait? I've brought the menu, you choose what you want and I'll smuggle it in. Don't tell your doctor. It'll be our secret." 


Let me tell you, looking at Alain Ducasse's menu for Spoon even when you have no appetite sure beats dreading hospital food. It reminded me that I was once a normal girl who dressed up and went out to dinner. And that one day I would do it again.


Give a blanket. Hands down, it's the best gift you can give. Hospital linen is sterilised, bleached and starched to within an inch of its life. It's scratchy and depressing.


I started tolerating hospital linens the minute Daphne's quilt arrived from Inda. My friend Daphne Ghesquiere moved to Delhi with her husband a year or two before, and when she heard about my illness she immediately sent through Proust (which I didn't read as I fell asleep so much) and a blue quilt. 


In her note she said "Pardon the smell if it's a bit strong." I didn't at all. In fact it's what I loved most about the quilt. It smelled like soil and rain and cumin and the inside of the wooden Indian cabinets I had at home. It smelled like life captured in rough cotton. The life I badly wanted to hold on to, and that I swore I would live better if I ever got out of that hospital.


The quilt kept me warm during those moments of intolerable, teeth-chattering cold. The quilt enveloped me, shut out my fears. And whenever I drew it up I felt, from across the oceans, Daphne's firm embrace.