The Ionian Sea as seen from Agios Mattheos mountain, Corfu, Greece

Here are 10 tactless things people said when my Dad was ill with metastatic melanoma, and suggestions of comments that could be considered more helpful in such circumstances…

1. ‘It might be nothing’.
When informing colleagues, friends and acquaintances of my Dad’s illness I usually did so because they had asked how I was and, during that period, thoughts and emotions related to what my Dad (and everyone who loved him) was going through dominated my whole way of being. In telling people that my Dad was ill, I wasn’t asking anyone to challenge the official diagnosis i.e. metastatic malignant melanoma — I was simply advising them of the fact that this was what was afflicting my Dad (and entire family), and not even bothering them with the hideous details of the metastasis. In sharing the news of the illness, I certainly wasn’t seeking faux reassurance or outright denial of the ugly medical scenario.

A suggested alternative comment:
‘That sounds worrying. I hope your Dad will get good quality medical care, and that the treatment will work’.

2. ‘He’ll be fine’.
Throughout his illness, my Dad had a series of appointments with a consultant clinical oncologist. This consultant spent five years after medical school specialising in his field and, in all the meetings with my Dad, did not once tell him ‘You’ll be fine’. A psychologist told me that there was a positive intention behind the statement that my Dad would be ‘fine’, but I struggle to see it! I found this statement blithe and, whenever anyone said it, it made me feel as if they were trivializing the seriousness of my Dad’s illness and invalidating my fears about it.

A suggested alternative comment:
‘That’s terrible. However, there are some amazing cancer survival stories — I hope your Dad will turn out to be one of the lucky ones’.

3. ‘If you don’t think positively, your Dad might not get better’.
I never really understood how my thoughts could possibly have any direct effect on the outcome of my Dad’s treatment for an illness which he described himself as a ‘wily disease with a mind of its own’. The treatment and its potential effectiveness was based on solid science, not on an airy-fairy approach. I think that my Dad wanted courageous acknowledgment of what he was facing, not cowardly dismissal, which is also what I sought when passing on the upsetting news about his situation. Throughout his illness I had excellent counselling (so that I wouldn’t burden anyone other than a trained professional with my distress), made myself available to my family (with regular visits), passed on kind messages of encouragement that I had received for them, tried to succeed at work, maintained enjoyable social appointments, and kept up with fulfilling leisure pursuits outside of work so that, when I spoke to my Dad, I had nice things to tell him and he wouldn’t need to worry about me. I think that was positive enough.

A suggested alternative comment:

‘I’m sorry to hear what you, your Dad and family are going through. I hope you are all managing to get the support you need’.

4. ‘It’s only skin cancer’.
It’s true that my Dad wasn’t suffering from mesothelioma (which, from its name alone, sounds like a death sentence!) but, when his melanoma (not a particularly pretty-sounding word either!) first appeared the consultant dermatologist who provided expert treatment did not once, on any single occasion, refer to the diagnosis as something to be casually disregarded. The skin is a main organ of the human body, which protects and contains all the other organs.

A suggested alternative comment:
‘I’m sorry to hear that your Dad is ill. It’s good to hear that he has access to decent medical care’.

5. ‘Is it possible to get skin cancer in England? There’s no sun there!’
As I hesitantly disclosed news of my Dad’s situation, I didn’t feel that this was a suitable moment for people to abruptly share their prejudiced image of England. My Dad spent his childhood summers playing on beaches in the Isles of Scilly in the early 1950s, before the dangers of excessive sunshine had been discovered. Moreover, the Isles of Scilly happens to have a mild climate and is often the warmest place in the UK where it hardly ever snows and frost is very rare. My Dad spent more than 40 years working outdoors in the islands which have a high UV index partly due to the pure, unpolluted sea air. Anyway, as already stated, when telling people that my Dad was ill (which I only did because it seemed appropriate for the type of interaction I generally had with them), I wasn’t inviting them to argue with the facts that I was imparting no matter how troubling they were.

A suggested alternative comment:
‘That’s so unlucky. It’s good that there is more awareness of the dangers of the sun these days’.

6. ‘It’s a glorious, sunny day today!’
This comment was made in the presence of family members who had just seen my Dad, rendered into a helpless figure in a wheelchair too weak to shout out a greeting. I don’t think that even an inherently callous person would, for example, smoke a full-strength cigarette in front of someone suffering from lung cancer whilst cheerfully stating ‘These cigarettes are fabulous’! I found the timing of the supposedly upbeat comment about the sunshine brutally inappropriate.

A suggested alternative comment:
Sometimes, in a terribly sad situation, there really is nothing to say. On this occasion, I think that allowing silence would have been the desired compassionate behaviour.

7. ‘These things happen when we get older’.
I was 36 and, when my Dad’s illness assailed him, he was 65. That’s a common retirement age i.e. when a new phase of life is often expected to start, not when life is supposed to end! I have worked with several colleagues in their late 60s (and even older) who are still energetic and highly active, some even livelier than many people I know who are decades younger. Uttering a cliché about the general nature of life, without bothering to even find out the reality of the situation that is being dealt with, is not constructive.

A suggested alternative comment:
‘I’m sorry to hear about this threat to your Dad’s health, when he’s still fairly young and has dreams left to fulfil’.

8. ‘We all have parents. They all die’.
It’s true that we are mortal human beings born to mortal human beings. However, awareness of this inescapable fact doesn’t make the reality of it any easier to bear. I think the nature of loving someone is that we are never ready to lose them. Whatever age you are, I reckon that losing a parent can bring up destabilizing feelings of vulnerability, leaving even the strongest adult feeling like a frightened child.

A suggested alternative comment:
‘I’m sorry your Dad is seriously ill. It’s heartbreaking to lose a parent’.

9. ‘At least you’ve had some warning so, if the worst does happen, it won’t be too much of a shock’.
It was a shock when my Dad was first found to have melanoma. It was a shock when it recurred (having metastasized) 6 ½ years later, an even bigger shock when the treatment for the recurrence was shown not to have worked 8 months after it had reappeared, and an indescribably massive shock when my Dad died 4 ½ months following that (despite further, drastic treatment which turned out not to be effective, as hoped). Over six years later, it is still a shock! In June 2013 my Dad was on a dream holiday in Norway. By June 2014 he had planned his funeral (whilst he still had the cognitive capacity to do so realising, quite correctly, that that would probably not last much longer).

A suggested alternative comment:
‘I’m sorry that your Dad has had such a big shock. You and your family really haven’t had much time to try and come to terms with this’.

10. ‘I don’t know what to say’.
I know that we all react differently to things, that some people genuinely find it hard to know what to say in painful situations, and that we all show concern for others in diverse ways. However, if you find yourself thinking ‘I don’t know what to say’ in response to news that someone has shared, it’s likely that it was difficult for this person to tell you whatever upsetting thing they have just opened up to you about. In revealing their news to you, it’s probable that this person hopes you may have something truly comforting or encouraging to say. No matter how scared or uncomfortable the news might make you feel, instead of responding with ‘I don’t know what to say’, I urge you to try responding with one of the following suggested alternative comments:

• ‘That sounds worrying’.
• ‘That’s terrible’.
• ‘That’s so unlucky’.
• ‘That’s heartbreaking’.
• ‘I hope you can get the support you need’.

[In the case of severe illness]

• ‘I hope the medical care will be good’.
• ‘There are some amazing survival stories. I hope [the person who is ill] will turn out to be one of the lucky ones’.

If you feel it would be unnatural for you to make any of these comments, you can simply say ‘I’M SORRY’. Sometimes ‘I’m sorry’ (especially when said from the heart) is all a fellow human being needs to hear.