The Partial Observer by Gayane Torosyan
I Know You Mean Well
There are moments in life when bad news arrives uninvited, shattering the ordinary rhythm of our days. The first blow—news of illness or death—often leaves us stunned. Yet, almost immediately, the questions begin: updates, follow-ups, inquiries about wellbeing or what comes next. Even the most well-meaning voices can stumble into linguistic landmines, unintentionally deepening the discomfort they seek to ease.
A recent diagnosis in my family, a condition that would have sounded far graver only a few years ago, placed me squarely in the spotlight of what experts might call “well-being communication.” Listening to the words people chose, I began to notice patterns worth sharing, if only to help others navigate this delicate terrain without missteps.
Sometimes words falter in the face of illness: The first group of well-wishers treats your life like a serialized drama, complete with cliffhangers. To them, I say: Drop the popcorn. Their impatience for the next plot twist: “When will you finally get the biopsy results?” adds pressure to an already fraught situation. Have they considered that not everyone is eager to hear the verdict, especially when the word “malignant” looms?
Then there are those genuinely caring friends who inadvertently script your emotions for you: “I know how frustrated and confused you must be, juggling phone calls and not knowing where to start…” Attempts to correct these assumptions fall flat. These caring souls are convinced they know how you feel, or should feel, forgetting the simplest, most humane gesture: to ask.
There are times when well-meaning comfort misses the mark. Reluctant as I am to diagnose the next category of well-wishers with Anti-Social Personality Disorder (ASPD), though their lack of empathy might tempt one, I can say this: declaring “Everything will be okay” the moment the “c-word” is uttered is neither credible nor comforting. Even doctors, armed with data and experience, rarely make such sweeping assurances, especially not in cases that carry survival rates below 15 percent.
A better response? Affirm the person’s strength, their resilience, their capacity to fight instead of dismissing the gravity of the moment with a verbal shrug. Indifference, however well-intentioned, can sting as sharply as curiosity.
Further evidence of conversational missteps blanketing in ASPD lies in the hollow blanket of a casual and dispassionate “How are you?” when it sounds so thin it barely covers the toes of what you and your family are enduring. There is a middle ground between popcorn-fueled curiosity and breezy optimism and finding it is the true art of compassion. Trying to engage a little more would be a good place to start.
Sometimes caring turns complicated when it burdens you with a task. To be fair, the friends who check in during a health crisis usually mean well. They want updates, reassurance, a sign that things are okay. But here’s the truth: When life gets heavy, or a milligram lighter on this roller-coaster of medical news, the promise to call or text everyone right away becomes impossible to keep. There simply are not enough hours or bandwidth to open a makeshift news bureau akin to the BBC. This is where platforms like CaringBridge or MyLifeLine can offer better solutions for health updates.
And yet, some people manage to make it harder for those who have yet to create an online support community. They say things like, “When you didn’t call, I started worrying.” It sounds caring, but it lands like a guilt trip. Because if you really cared, you would understand this: Your worry is not the only pain in the room. Sometimes, the person you are waiting to hear from is just trying to function.
The ultimate communication failure, though, is what I think of as the black hole. Some people behave as if they never heard you mention the dreadful diagnosis at all; others offer the fallback line, “I don’t know what to say.” The truth is, there are many things one could say, yet hearing someone you’ve known for 20 years draw a complete blank is not among the comforts you hope for in a crisis.
And yet the opposite of caring is not mere indifference or complete avoidance but the pretense, in an otherwise normal conversation, that the “elephant in the room” does not exist. In fact, it has a loud silence that may masquerade as a shield, but its omission carves a hollow space that reflects the very truth it seeks to conceal. What remains unsaid casts its own outline, shaping the conversation as surely as spoken words. The harder we work to taboo a subject, the more vividly it emerges in the deliberate void.
And please do not compound the silence by hiding evidence of joy in those bright moments we missed because of treatments. To cloak happiness out of fear of jinxing or jealousy is a ritual for cannibals, not for people who believe in the mission of science. It is resilience that carries us forward, a resolve that leaves no room for envy, no space for regret. Nothing clarifies priorities quite like a spouse in the hospital; suddenly, a near‑stranger’s destination wedding feels worlds away.
Granted, ordinary people can miss the mark. However, the undisputed champion of conversational missteps is the trained physician who, after reportedly spending 40 minutes poring over the patient’s chart, inquires whether their parents are “healthy and well.” The chart, of course, states the opposite with details that open doors to potential interventions hinging on hereditary factors, all clearly documented in the very file the doctor apparently read backward or upside down. And really, what 69-year-old wouldn’t delight in boasting about centenarian parents living happily ever after in the most war-torn and economically disadvantaged corner of the former Soviet Union?
Some good people rely on the grace of God, insisting that everything rests in divine hands, as if faith alone were a substitute for action. But even the most devout among us know that belief does not absolve responsibility. Sometimes, diligence matters in choosing the right doctor (other than Dr. Mom&Dad-are-Healthy&Well), seeking the right treatment, asking the right questions. Divine providence may guide the journey, but it rarely schedules the appointment. In moments like these, faith and effort must walk hand in hand. If God sends you a rescue helicopter, you board it. Or at least buy a lottery ticket when you’re praying for good luck, just as the old anecdote advises.
Some well-meaning friends will helpfully inform you that Israel has superb clinics, as though your opinion of the country and your insurance deductible were matters of international diplomacy, perhaps even weighed against the frequent-flyer miles you’ve been hoarding like a Cold War secret. Yes, everyone knows good clinics exist in good nations; yet, astonishingly, some souls still need coaxing to accept the glaring truth that, unlike the bureaucratic theater of the former Soviet Union, America’s gleaming temples of medicine treat every patient as if they were a cherished insider, whether or not their uncle chairs the board.
There are others who march in with ultimatums for your doctors: “Tell them to cut it!” And when you explain that the doctors are exercising caution, they bristle: “Have you considered a second opinion?” As if prudence were something you could shop around for.
As if the caregiver’s role weren’t already a full-time job, some friends decide to add a side hustle: turning you into their personal travel agent. “Just give us the exact day and time of the surgery,” they demand, as though (like my daughter) you have the surgeon on speed dial and a crystal ball in your pocket. Suddenly, calling the doctor with legitimate medical questions feels like the easy part, because now you’re negotiating flight itineraries for a surprise visit by that friend. With biopsy results still hanging in suspense, you and the doctor find yourselves moonlighting as concierge staff, wondering if this gig comes with frequent flyer miles.
Thankfully, there are friends who strike the perfect balance—offering help with anything you might need, or the gift of space if that’s what you prefer. They show up with a plate of treats and listen to your stories. For those gestures of sensitivity and respect, we are deeply thankful.
Finally, there are predictions that border with a misstep. One is the blunt inquiry about “prognosis.” To that, I say: By all means, consult my astrological chart or take a peek into that crystal ball I allegedly keep in my pocket, because clearly, that is where all the answers to life’s mysteries reside.
If you do, you will see that I am born under the Zodiac sign of Pheces, as seen through my good colleague Tim Welch’s “horrorscope.” If those predictions fail, Google the survival rate for this particular illness. But please, do not expect the family to deliver a verdict. Medicine today is not what it was a decade ago, yet certainty is still a luxury few can afford.
Then there are friends whose honesty borders on comic relief. Some confess surprise at seeing an able-bodied person when they had pictured a frail patient in a wheelchair. Another asked whether the patient was “able to smile.” People smile through almost anything, and in our family, we laugh, loudly and often. If nothing else, questions like these give us more moments of humor, and for that, we are grateful. Because we know you mean well.
On a slightly different note, moving from interpersonal to mass communication, it would be a dereliction of my civic duty as a complainer not to mention Hollywood’s favorite shorthand for tragedy: cancer. Whenever a character needs to exit stage left with gravitas, the scriptwriters reach for the same diagnosis as reliably as they reach for a rainy funeral scene. Yet, outside the sterile glow of medical dramas, you’ll be hard‑pressed to find an ordinary storyline in which someone actually survives the increasingly survivable. A notable exception is the HBO (U.K.’s BBC One) series “Industry,” where the fictional investment bank executive Bill Adler confidentially admits that he lives with a malignant brain tumor and still expects to work for many years, his full head of silver‑grey hair intact.
Aside from such rare exceptions, popular culture keeps insisting that cancer is a moral verdict or, at best, a narrative full stop, when in reality it is often neither the patient’s fault nor the end of the story. Really, if screenwriters are so desperate to write a noble struggle, perhaps they could occasionally let a character beat the disease, if only as a courtesy to the medical professionals who work miracles daily. And if they must kill someone off, maybe choose an ailment more fitting of their bad choices; preferably one with fewer hardworking oncologists wincing in the background. With centers of excellence like Memorial Sloan Kettering within the viewership areas of those shows, surviving a malignant tumor is not only fair, but hopefully more realistic. That is what we count on.
Dr. Gayane Torosyan is a professor of media studies in the Department of Communication and Media at SUNY Oneonta.
