Finding Support When People Say Others Have It Worse

One of the things I often heard when I was first diagnosed with cancer was, I shouldn’t be so upset; other people have it worse. After all, the cancer I was diagnosed with in July 2020 — follicular lymphoma, a form of blood cancer — is highly treatable, even at late stages (a benefit offset by it being incurable and highly likely to recur).

The treatment for it, in my case, given that I was diagnosed at stage 4 (the highest stage; in this case, lymphoma was found pretty much everywhere in my body) involved chemotherapy and immunotherapy — medications which, together, put most people into remission — and which are more tolerable than many other medications of the same types used for other forms of cancer. Like most people, the side effects were tolerable; in many ways, the side effects were less significant than the effects of active cancer, which cleared up within a week of my first round of treatment.

Then, too, because follicular lymphoma is slow growing and generally responsive to treatment, the first line of treatment is often less intense than with other cancers. I was given chemotherapy on two consecutive days and immunotherapy on one of those days, every four weeks. I was tired the day after, and the anti-nausea medication caused constipation. For contrast, a friend’s adult child who had bone cancer received chemotherapy and immunotherapy every three weeks, along with radiation aimed to catch any cancer cells that might have been missed when the tumor was removed, along with a significant portion of her femur. She lost all of her hair (I didn’t) and was violently nauseous (the anti-nausea medication, along with milder chemotherapy, meant that I was never nauseous). So people with experience either personally or helping others through treatment would tell me other people have it worse.

And it’s true — other people do have it worse, sometimes a lot worse. But that doesn’t make it a fun experience, and it doesn’t mean that my experience should be minimized just because it could be worse, which happened a lot. It created a lot of frustration for me; I’d be tired, lonely — my treatment occurred during the second half of 2020, with all the pandemic restrictions, plus extras because I was immunocompromised — and bored, because I was on medical leave.

That was another reason I often heard other people had it worse: I was placed on medical leave, with pay and benefits, for my entire period of treatment. I know that I am very fortunate that my contract specified that; I know far too many people who lost their jobs, their homes and then their health insurance mid-treatment. I know other people have it worse, but that doesn’t mean I had it good.

That’s the point, I suppose. I know it could have been much, much worse, and I know that other people think they were being supportive, even reassuring, when they told me that other people have it worse. But it didn’t feel supportive; instead, it felt dismissive. Five years after finishing treatment, it still feels dismissive. I know a lot more about cancer now than I did before — a lot more than I ever wanted to know. I know that not every cancer is the same, not every treatment protocol — even if they are called by the same generic name — is the same. I know that some cancers have a higher rate of better outcomes than others. But cancer is still a serious illness, and even a “good” cancer (yes, I was told that if I had to develop cancer, at least I got a “good” cancer) is still serious and risky and worthy of equal concern… even if other people really do have it worse.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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