How to Tell Someone They Have Cancer: Medical Professional Edition

• ER Doctor 1: Inform patient that all heart-related testing came back fine, but that the chest X-ray showed a "fuzzy spot" on the lung. Advise patient not to jump to worst-case scenario, and laugh politely at her joke ("Alien spores?"). Explain that it is most likely pneumonia, and if a CT scan confirms this, her colleague on the next shift will send said patient home with some antibiotics.  
• ER Nurse 1: let the youngish-woman pacing the now-empty waiting room know that the doctor is just waiting for the results of the CT scan. Realize that they have, in fact, come in. Lose all ability to make eye contact with said patient for the next hour, until it is time to bring her in to meet the doctor. Come out behind the barrier (which you have not done for the past 4 hours) and personally escort her, with a heartbreaking look of compassion, to a small, windowless room filled with couches and Kleenex boxes.  
• ER Doctor 2: Introduce yourself. Apologize (and feel secretly, if not understandably, upset) that you, and not the doctor who had originally been overseeing her care, is here to discuss the results of the tests. Repeatedly ask if the patient would like to have someone with her to hear the news. Eventually accept that your persistence in this matter is only making things worse. Explain that this is the worst part of the job.  Inform patient that the CT scan showed a mass that was "indicative of malignancy." Refuse under all circumstances to use the word "cancer", despite the patient's best efforts to trick you into this, such as by asking sneaky questions like, "Does that mean I have cancer?" Explain that this can only be confirmed with further tests, which are all being arranged. Offer Kleenex. Take some for yourself. 
• ER Nurse 2: Arrange midnight taxi home for patient. Personally escort her to the door. Attempt to cheer her up by informing her of the latest news that Donald Trump has tested positive for Covid-19. 
• Floyd's Uncle who is a Radiologist and also German and lives up to the stereotypical directness of his naionality: Read Canadian radiologists report. Tell niece that yes, it is most likely cancer. 

Tell Me, Tell Me, Tell Me the Answer

Back in the early aughts, yours truly donned the patented blue polyester uniform of a Parliamentary Tour Guide. The job combined two of my finest qualities: the ability to spend hours explaining things I find interesting to a captive audience, and being right about everything, all the time. 

There would, of course, often be that one person who wanted to play "stump the tour guide" by asking the most random, specific question they could think of such as:

1. What is the weight of the building? 
2. Who was the first person to enter the building using the tunnel from the East Block?
3. How many doorknobs are there?

There may be a better feeling than putting some smug troll in his place by instantly responding, but young Floyd had to yet to experience it. The smugness would slowly change to confusion as I rattled off the answers without hesitation: Approximately 33,000 metric tonnes when vacant! The legislative assistant to then-Fisheries Minister Brian Tobin! 1,464, including yourself!  

I'm proud to say that in all my years of tour guiding, not a single one of these jackasses stumped me, by which I mean that no one was able to make up a question so asinine, so nonsensical, so blatantly in bad faith that I could not instantly respond, thanks to another two of my fine qualities: the ability to make shit up on the spot, and deliver it with confidence. 

It's not that I couldn't say "I don't know". I could, and did, when there were genuine questions because, much to my continued chagrin, I did not and still do not know everything about everything. But sometimes, sometimes, "I don't know" is too hard to say. 

Not just when my trivial intellectual supremacy is at stake, though. Sometimes it's too hard to say because it's upsetting to the person asking the question. Sometimes, the question isn't an inane, useless waste of time, but a sincere expression of real, meaningful interest. Sometimes, the question is "Is it terminal cancer?". Not always in those words, but it's there. I care about you, friend/wife/mother/daughter/sister/loved one. Is this going to kill you? How can I help prevent that?

And I hate hate hate not knowing that answer. But I can't just make something up. Not just because Google is a thing now and even the smuggiest smugs who ever smugged can bring a mobile encyclopedia to a battle of wits.  In this case, there are ACTUAL CONSEQUENCES to getting it wrong, in the form of causing pain to people I care about deeply, which is not at all satisfying as compared to, say, telling some doofus, with authority and a straight face, that the person who first defecated inside the House of Commons was prime minister/architect of genocide Sir John A. MacDonald.

And there is absolutely nothing I can do about that. I don't know the answer because nobody knows the answer. Cancer is a wily beast, and statistics, though eminently valuable at a population level, are about as helpful to an individual as a fart during Question Period. (Hell, as an answer during Question Period).  But at this point, that's all I have. I know that 1 in 3 people with my diagnosis survive more than five years. I know that my gender and age bestow a small but significant statistical advantage—as do the unfair privileges attached to my race, class, education level, proximity to a treatment centre, otherwise good health history and lack of visible disabilities. 

I also know that I am fortunate to not have to worry about being bankrupted by treatment, and to have loving friends and family who can support me, a job that has been flexible and understanding, and an incredible team of medical professionals and staff dedicated to my care. 

But I don't know if that's enough. And only time will tell. 

Time, with all its elusive power, forever out of mortal grasp, but that we nonetheless try to capture in our own ways...

...such as the Parliament's iconic Peace Tower clock, home to an impressive 53-bell, 4 1/2 octave carillon. What's that? Why yes, I do know which single song required the use of the most bells, sir. It was an impromptu concert by an aspiring carilloner who snuck away mid-tour and made it nearly through the entirety of Bohemian Rhapsody, until he was stopped mid-mamma mia! by a veteran security guard from Penetanguishine, who forced her way into the room using only Lester B. Pearson's antique spittoon and, per protocol, sternly rebuked the scoundrel for ignoring Canadian content laws. 

(Yup. Still got it.)

How to Tell People You Have Cancer

There must be 50 ways to leave your loved ones stunned with the news that you are a 39-year-old with stage 3a lung cancer, but these are the ones I've tried:

1. Invite them over for dinner, after determining whether the tears of your parents pair better with the appetizers or dessert. 
2. Call them up out of the blue. Make small talk until the subject arises organically, which it will,  because, well, 2020 ("hey, speaking of that crappy things that happened recently...")
3. Lurk on the group chat for weeks. Wait for the right moment to drop the bomb. Follow-up with cute animal memes in a desperate attempt to lighten the mood. 
4. Stare at their contact information. Compose text. Delete. Compose. Delete. Compose. Sen--nope, delete. Compose. Open Reddit "just for a minute". Hit send 17 hours later. 
5. Procrastinate until your mom/husband does it for you. 
6. Revive your ancient blog. Get frustrated at new interface. Browse through old posts for hits and giggles. Get mad about that Punisher movie again. Debate whether to remove  ignorant language and opinions or leave them as a reminder of the importance of self-improvement and growth. Feel smug. Start doing creative writing for the first time in almost a decade. Feel less smug. 

In some ways, it does get easier - you get used to the basic reactions. People are sad, and they want to help, and suddenly the lasagnas are multiplying in your little freezer like some sort of pasta-based family of rabbits, for which you are both very, very grateful and very, very constipated. 

But in other ways, it gets harder, like that one week 20 years ago that I worked giving surveys over the phone, and would look at the list on my computer screen and think "Do I really have to go through this script again?", only worse because not quite as many people cry when you tell them you are calling about their opinions on Paul Martin's leadership qualities. 

It's the most awkward with the good friends that I haven't spoken to for a while. Whether we bonded over our mutual love of rugby, relentless pursuit of higher education, or searing disdain for <insert name of power-tripping narcissistic boss here>,  I've been meaning to call you for ages. I've wanted to reach out and see how life was going, and I never got around to it and now there's this golfball-sized mass of malignant cells hanging over the whole thing. Hi dear friend, been thinking about you lots, also I have cancer, and how are you? 

So if you are in category 6 right now, please know it's only because I feel I missed my window of non-awkward contact. (And hey, your existence has also got me blogging again...so, thanks!)( And, you're welcome?)