This First Person column is the story of Barbara Reul of Regina. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, see our FAQs.
“Bad hair day or chemotherapy?”
I was on a Zoom call, wearing a beautiful turban to hide my bald head, when I got this tongue-in-cheek message from an acquaintance.
That shocked me.
I didn’t know how to respond to that so I just answered honestly, “Chemotherapy.”
I felt that the person was embarrassed and sorry.
Being diagnosed with a serious illness is difficult. For me, communicating my change in health to family, friends and colleagues was even harder.
What I didn’t expect or prepare for was to hear words of encouragement that were completely unhelpful to me as a cancer survivor.
One special member of Reul’s local support team was her friend’s miniature schnauzer, Winston, who began accompanying Reul on walks after her surgery and quickly became something of a therapy dog. (Submitted by Barbara Reul)
Crisis in the pandemic
A few years ago, in July 2020, I was suddenly diagnosed with gynecological cancer. As the world was fighting a pandemic, I underwent major surgery, followed by chemotherapy and radiation therapy, which resulted in many nasty side effects.
Extreme fatigue, serious weight gain (who would have known?), and terrible brain confusion from chemotherapy have turned me into an expert almost overnight contemplating early retirement or death (not sure which will come first). Sadly, pandemic travel restrictions have prevented my family and other friends and relatives from being with me.
Even though I was well looked after by my wonderful “chosen family” in town, I resented the fact that, as a middle-aged single woman, I had to navigate uncharted territory alone.
On top of that, I was unprepared for the comments that ranged from unhelpful (“It’s going to be hard going back to work”) to rude (“Not surprising, considering how busy you are”) to ignorant (“It’ll be over in a flash”).
“What’s wrong with humans?” I remember asking my beloved twin sister during one of our frequent video chats.
“I don’t know,” she replied quietly as I wiped away my tears.
My brother gave me some advice: “Why not use that as a teaching opportunity?” I thought that was a great idea.
After finishing treatment in March 2021, I started making a list of “what to say when you don’t know what to say.”
WATCH | What not to say to someone diagnosed with cancer:
What not to say to someone diagnosed with cancer
When Barbara Rule was diagnosed with cancer, she had no idea how much of a struggle it would be to tell people about her health journey. From unkind comments to messages that she found downright rude, here are some of the messages that have stuck with her and her advice on what to say instead.
Do not offer advice of any kind. Unless you are part of the patient’s medical team or have been specifically asked for your opinion, refrain from doing so.
Please don’t comment on my appearance. For 12 long months, every time I passed a mirror or looked into anything resembling a camera, I was terrified. Why? Because a very old, very fat, and sometimes very bald woman I didn’t recognize was staring right into my face. I have nothing more to say.
Don’t grieve for someone else’s future. It’s not someone else’s job to consult the crystal ball of their mind and paint a picture of what the rest of their life will be like. That’s something I should be worried about.
Don’t speak for someone else. Sharing details about someone’s health journey without their consent is never a good idea. That inconsiderate act would either make me cry or eat a spoonful of Nutella.
Never assume that someone’s health journey is over. Living with the fear that you may die sooner than others is a reality of life for cancer survivors. That’s why I now make an extra effort to live every moment to the fullest.
Reul celebrated her birthday in August as a cancer survivor in remission. (Courtesy of Barbara Reul)
The most meaningful experiences for me have always been those involving people who cared. Responses like “I’m so sorry for you” and “That must have been hard” show genuine empathy and were so gratifying. I loved being a part of other people’s lives (“Are you up for a walk around the lake today?”) while keeping my own corona bubble small for obvious reasons. After all, I wasn’t dead yet, I was just sick and trying to recover.
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The gift of empathy
Whenever others thanked me for my insights or suggestions, I felt empowered and grateful in ways that words cannot describe.
In that moment, I realized how precious the gift I had been given was.
I have learned to empathize effectively with others and at the same time be more patient with myself.
As a cancer survivor in remission, I now strive even harder to live every moment to the fullest, especially with my birthday approaching in mid-August.
Words cannot describe the intense joy and deep gratitude I felt this summer as I stood before the oldest tree in Cathedral Grove, MacMillan Provincial Park on Vancouver Island, and commemorated this event.
I realized that my journey to health has been shaped by many amazing creatures (four-legged and otherwise) who have helped me transform into a better version of myself (“Barb 2.0”).
To them, I am precious in sickness and in health.
And I will always be grateful for that.
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