First the sorries, then the silence
Sunday, 24 May 2026
ESSAY: It would have been, oh, about three months ago when I first told people of our terrible news.
I say “about” as though I haven’t kept an actual, exact score of the timing, which at the time of writing is precisely 98 days.
I was reeling then, as all of my family were. Initially all we were told was that the cancer was bad, and the next steps were up to a health system that would determine both what he was up for and worth.
That’s what I told folks too: colleagues, friends, acquaintances, and various conflations of the camps. They said nice things like “I’m so sorry” and “let me know if there’s anything I can do” and “that’s really awful, V”.
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And it was awful, and they were sorry, and there wasn’t much of anything they actually could do. Still, it felt really good to hear them say it.
But then they didn’t say anything else.
When I’m feeling charitable I like to think their silence is due to awkwardness, busyness, or perhaps the faint, ancient worry that cancer is somehow catching. Or maybe its because what I told them was mistaken as a singular moment of horror instead of a long-haul state of being.
When I’m feeling bitter, however, I tend to think their silence is cowardly and selfish ‒ that for some reason even the mild discomfort of asking after us feels too confronting.
And 98 days later I still find myself moving between the two options with a sort of grim efficiency, the balance changing depending on that day or week’s news.
Back and forth, back and forth, from understanding and exhaustion to fury and hurt.
Karen Nimmo, a wellness expert, says that most people do genuinely care but sometimes don’t know either what to say or how to say it.
“They worry about feeling awkward, saying the wrong thing or intruding. Sometimes they’re scared, because illness reminds them of their own vulnerability.
“So they back off, or avoid saying anything, which makes the person struggling feel abandoned, hurt and lonely. Resentment is a big one too.”
The avoidance can also be a cultural thing, she says.
“Many New Zealanders tend to be emotionally restrained, we don’t like to make a fuss, or intrude around illness and grief which can be interpreted as a lack of care.”
Nimmo is speaking from a position of both professional expertise and personal experience ‒ the latter hard learnt when her husband was diagnosed with stage four cancer.
“When you’re going through a health crisis, you become highly aware of who’s there for you – and who’s not. It’s not about keeping score, it’s about feeling safe when you are vulnerable.”
And years later, Nimmo knows, people will still remember who showed up for them during a crisis.
“When friends/close colleagues don’t it can rupture the relationship to the point of no return.”
Currently though, my own personal shit-list of no-shows keeps growing. Sickness, I have recently realised, has become very easy to talk around.
It happens in the supermarket, the car park, and during professional commitments. There are people who ask how I am, brightly and kindly, as though these days are normal days and I never told them anything in the first place.
But they ask it, and I say “all good” because that’s what the social script requires, and both parties know that isn’t even remotely true. Or at least I hope they do.
It is a strange kind of performance: one in which I play myself but only the acceptable parts. I say “living the dream” and “busy, busy” and “actually something really funny happened at the dog park last week”.
What I don’t say is: “I can’t sleep, or ”we need money,“ or ”everything is awful, actually.“
And what I certainly don’t say is “How in the everlasting hell does something like this happen when only four months ago he was hauling my green waste onto a trailer while his little girl was following behind clutching a fistful of leaves?”
Cancer, it turns out, is much like so many other griefs.
There are “thinking of you” texts and offers of “anything at all” in the beginning. There is flurry of urgency initially, after you drop the bad news.
But cancer is often not urgent in the cinematic way that people might expect. It is administrative and repetitive and exhausting. It is waiting rooms and blood counts and parking receipts and entire conversations conducted in acronyms. It is long weeks suspended between scans and phone calls and someone saying “we’ll know more soon”.
“Soon” becomes a new country that you suddenly have to live in.
And of course the outside world resumes, it has to. Everyone is fighting their own stuff and rightly nothing pauses just because your stuff is worse. Still, the silence sucks.
We are terrible with sickness, especially the serious kind. We like our suffering inspirational, survivable, and preferably contained to a fund-raiser or Netflix documentary where everybody learns something meaningful in the finale.
“Maybe my anger at everyone is just sadness turned outwards?” I said to a colleague the other day.
“Maybe it’s both,” she said.
And back we go to Nimmo who says it’s important to remember that not everyone has the emotional or communication skills “to do the right thing.
“There’s no such thing as a “social contract” that tells you how it’s done. But people just want others to care. They want to be noticed and acknowledged.“
As for those on the other side, Nimmo says you don’t need to be wise, clever or word perfect. The important thing is to be yourself and keep it real.
“A simple ‘How are things going?’, ‘I’ve been thinking about you’ or ‘can I drop around some food tomorrow?’ is often enough, especially if you remember the struggles of the person’s partner and family.
“When most of the attention is directed to the unwell person, partners and families can flounder and feel invisible.”
As for what not to say? Nimmo suggests it’s best to avoid sharing stories of others who’ve been through the same sort of thing.
“And don’t try to be overly positive about the outcome – “you’ll get through this” or “just keep a positive attitude” sound superficial to someone who’s struggling.
“Also, it might not be true. Plenty of people with positive attitudes haven’t made it through serious illness.”
The main thing, she says, is to step up and be there in whatever capacity you can manage. Just say something simple, be there, square your shoulders and ask how it’s going.
”Friendship is gold during a crisis. And loneliness is worse than silence.”
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