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?)