You never truly know the strength of your friendships until cancer crashes into your life like an unwanted houseguest. In 2022, I made what I thought was a considerate decision – telling my closest friends about my breast cancer diagnosis before sharing it on social media. It seemed like the right thing to do. These were people I'd shared laughs with, celebrated birthdays with, people who I thought would be pillars of support during the scariest journey of my life.
I remember carefully planning those conversations, bracing myself for each one. "I have cancer," I said, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. Their responses were predictable – shocked gasps, "Oh my gods," and promises to be there for me. But here's what nobody prepares you for: the deafening silence that follows.
For three months into my chemo, I stayed quiet on social media. Those were dark days – days filled with nausea, fear, and a loneliness that felt like a second diagnosis. My phone stayed eerily silent. No check-ins. No offers of help. Nothing but the occasional "thinking of you" text that felt as hollow as a chocolate Easter bunny.
Then I posted a TikTok video of myself in chemo. Suddenly, my phone lit up like a Christmas tree. One friend texted, "Wow, I didn't know it was that bad." I couldn't help but respond with biting sarcasm: "I told you I had cancer, not an STD." What did they think cancer was? A bad cold?
Another friend's contribution to my cancer journey? Sharing my social media posts. As if hitting "share" somehow qualified as support. And then there was the friend who ghosted me entirely, only to show up at a breast cancer walk months later, all smiles and giggles like we were at a damn sorority reunion. The audacity of acting like everything was normal while wearing pink tutus and taking selfies for their Instagram feed made my blood boil.
You want to know what real cancer support looks like? It's not sending fuzzy socks. (Seriously, what the fuck am I supposed to do with more socks?) Real support is showing up. It's picking up my daughter from school when I'm too weak to drive. It's sending Uber money when I can't make it to my appointments. It's coming over to clean my house when the smell of cleaning products makes me nauseous, and I can barely lift my arms.
Not one person did any of these things.
Cancer showed me who my real friends were by showing me who they weren't. While they were busy sharing my posts and sending me meaningless gifts, I was fighting for my life, trying to be a mother, and learning to navigate a healthcare system that wasn't designed for young Black women like me.
The truth is, cancer is lonely. Not because you're alone – there are plenty of doctors, nurses, and medical professionals around you. It's lonely because the people you thought would stand beside you, the ones who promised "I'm here for you," disappear when things get real. When your hair falls out, when you can't keep food down, when you're crying at 3 AM because you're terrified – that's when you learn the true meaning of friendship, or in my case, the lack thereof.
To anyone going through this: your feelings of abandonment are valid. And to those who have friends going through cancer: do better. Show up. Actually show up. Because "thoughts and prayers" and fuzzy socks don't mean shit when you're in the fight of your life.
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