The Defining Moments of Support After Hearing ‘You Have Cancer’

Linda Cohen is a survivor of small lymphocytic lymphoma and was diagnosed in 2009. Catch up on all of Linda's blogs here!

I once read a book entitled, “This is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared,” by Alan Lew. The title was written in all caps which grabbed my attention. Although it wasn’t talking about hearing a scary diagnosis, it perfectly described how I felt when my doctor spoke the dreaded words:

“You Have Cancer.”

Looking back over my 16 years of living with chronic cancer, I can still feel the support my family and friends wrapped around me from the very beginning. At first, I didn’t even understand what “chronic cancer” meant. All I heard was, “You have cancer.”

But from the very start, there were defining moments of support — moments so vivid that they remain etched in my memory as if they happened yesterday.

My husband could hardly speak. It was as if he’d been punched in the stomach and all his words were tied in a knot he couldn’t untangle. He knew he couldn’t fix this one for me. He was a mess. Neither of us said much on the drive home from the doctor’s office. Later that evening, though, he came over, wrapped me in his arms, and sobbed. In that embrace, I felt the depth of his love and the weight of his helplessness.

My oldest daughter burst into tears the moment I told her. Perhaps I made the mistake of breaking the news over the phone, but I also knew she was with her best friend, who would help her through the initial shock. Within days, she arrived with a binder full of information — diet suggestions, exercise routines, and carefully researched articles about my specific cancer. She had gone into problem-solving mode, her determination written all over her face. Her message to me was clear: “We’ll help you beat this, Mom.”

My middle daughter’s response was quieter, but no less powerful. She simply said, “I’d like to come over and go for a walk with you. Okay?”

“Of course,” I replied.

I still remember the path we walked and how freely my emotions poured out that day. The rhythm of our footsteps, the comfort of her steady presence — it was as if the simple act of walking side by side helped me release my feelings.

My youngest daughter was in her final year of law school. She called and said softly, “I’m so sorry, Mom.” I could hear her sadness, but I also sensed she was holding back, keeping a part of herself protected so she could stay focused on the demands of school. Even so, she checked in more often than usual, and each call was a reminder of her quiet but unwavering love.

It struck me how differently each of them processed the same news. Each response was unique, shaped by who they were at that moment in their lives. Yet when I think back, their first acts of support rise to the surface immediately, with no effort at retrieval.

As time went on, I shared my diagnosis with friends, and they, too, showed support in different ways when treatment was needed a few years after my diagnosis. Some called frequently to check in. Some asked if they could drop off cake or comforting soups. A few offered to accompany me to treatment, though I preferred having my husband by my side. Still, I knew if I did need them, they would be there. My closest friends found ways to stay present by listening, caring, and showing up without fanfare. My more casual friends often said, “Let me know if you need anything,” and though I appreciated the thought, I came to realize how different those words felt compared to the tangible gestures of my inner circle.

Through these experiences, I learned lessons I carry with me to this day. I learned that real support requires sensitivity — that it means respecting boundaries and never overstepping. I learned that offering specific help is far more meaningful than vague promises. And I learned that sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is simply show up, quietly, without expectation, and let the person know you’re there.

It often takes being patient to truly understand how best to support others in their time of need. Unfortunately, life has a way of placing us all on one side or the other at some point. When that time comes, I hope to bring forward the lessons etched into my own experience — the defining moments of support that carried me when I needed it most.

Because while I was, indeed, completely unprepared for those words — “You have cancer” — the love and support that surrounded me reminded me that hopefully you won’t have to face the unprepared, real moments of life alone and you will be open to finding and accepting a support system to help you.

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

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