When the “Help” Hurts

A look at the value of tuna casserole and other tray-based meals as healing tools

Ding dong. The doorbell rings. I swing it open to three well-meaning smiling faces on my porch. Arms outstretched, loaded with giant glass dishes…filled with lukewarm tuna casseroles.

Ever since my wife told the world she has Hairy Cell Leukemia (HCL), tuna casserole has been a constant source of anxiety for me. Why? Can I really hate free, community-made tuna casserole that much? Yes. Yes, I can. But that’s not the issue. It’s far more complicated than that.

Those friends and family are on your doorstep to help, sometimes unwittingly driving your anxiety levels to stratospheric levels. The question becomes, how can they help without bringing the hurt?

The best answer to that question is to seek first to understand, then to act. I think Confucius may have said that, or I saw it on one of those trendy refrigerator magnets that quote Mark Twain or promote binge drinking. I love those things.

The cancer bomb explodes in an instant. One day you’re a couple lounging by the pool on vacation, the next day, she’s a cancer patient, and you’re a caregiver. Life will never be the same. Suddenly, you need to start making plans and decisions that will impact the rest of your life. Now.

And you realize, in the immediacy of the moment, that you are Jon Snow. You know nothing. And that’s where the “help” that might be offered to your family can unintentionally hurt.

“Listen to the person who you want to help. Find the pain points in their life and see how you might be able to ease them.”

It doesn’t take long to be bombarded with offers of help. “Anything I can do to help, just let me know,” is the line in about 87% of all the text messages you will receive. And it’s great. Don’t get me wrong. But that rose is not without its thorns.

First, those who don’t know, tell. They tell you what you need to do. What you should eat. How you should eat. They can’t believe you have not started blindfolded, northern facing, hot yoga yet. But only on Tuesdays because that’s when the chakras align with the lunar angle of Aries. And they do all this with such passion. Such passion. So much so if you beg to differ or casually suggest you’ll discuss your diet with your medical team, they get offended. Now, the cancer patient or caregiver is taking care of the helper. Managing their feelings. Helpful?

Next comes the eager beaver. “Put me to work!” “I will be here 24/7 for you; just give me a schedule.” “Do you have that schedule yet? I didn’t see it.” Sigh. Not sure if you realize, but my wife just found out she has cancer seven minutes ago. So, when I told you, I will definitely let you know, maybe take my word for it. Because we don’t know the help we need right now. But what I do know is that you’re kicking my stress level up to a Spinal Tap 11.

Ding dong. Damn it! Here comes the tuna casserole. Hey, wait. No, I was wrong. It’s a tray of lasagna. I am humbled whenever someone goes out of their way to make a meal for us. However, the lasagna presumption is fraught with problems.

First, my wife can’t eat right now. No matter how much she wants to. Second, in her case, her immune system will be completely torched by chemo. We can’t risk her getting food poisoning. I love my friends, but I’m not sure they all check the expiration date on that ricotta cheese before stuffing it on top of oversized noodles. Third, we have no room for this in our refrigerator. Now, the lasagna is another problem for me to manage. Finally, personally, I like to cook for my family. It brings me joy and fulfillment. So, for me, your lasagna, well-intentioned and proportioned, might just bum me out.

All of these thorns can be pruned by doing one thing, listening. Listen to the person who you want to help. Find the pain points in their life and see how you might be able to ease them. For my wife and me, it’s grocery shopping, kids’ playtime, and dog walking. For another family, it very well may be an insatiable desire for tuna casserole. The point is the prime motivation should be to help and not to make yourself feel good or to shape someone’s path to healing.

I made a promise to everyone in our orbit when my wife started her battle with HCL. I will ask for help. I have zero problems with asking for help. When I do, it will be specific, and it will be important to us. I’ve been surprised by how uncomfortable my directness makes people feel.

After I make my specific ask, many people tell me that what I’m asking for is not “big enough” or “important enough.” But it’s important to us. Shouldn’t that end the discussion? Whether you’re the teller, the beaver, or the ding donger, you must pay attention to the anxiety and pressure your resistance to our wishes causes our team. That anxiety is only making your cancer-carrying friend want to retract more.

And I’m not alone in my feelings. I’ve spent time talking to cancer survivors and caregivers, and the feeling is similar. When people move to help before they listen, these families are quickly overwhelmed. And let’s face it, who wants to call someone out for bringing over a fine tuna casserole? Well, other than me?

Before I go to my freezer to chuck another tin of lasagna, consider this: cancer spins the afflicted’s life into chaos and crisis. Cancer is a lot of things, but one of the most surprising things it can be is lonely. Because after all the hundreds of “thoughts and prayers” cram our inboxes, we’re still left with figuring out how to restructure our lives to fight and live with cancer.

So, rather than a tuna casserole or the world’s best lasagna, start with a hug, a laugh, or even a silent look that tells us, you are not alone, my friend, and you never will be.

At the end of the day, my wife and I have “cancer brain.” We’re overwhelmed and exhausted. We won’t remember which casserole dish is yours. If I try to figure that out, it just may push me past my breaking point. And, after all, I know you bought that lasagna at Costco.