Disease has a way of invading your social space, forcing your hand. Will you tell your family and close friends only? What about acquaintances and work mates? Will you share your diagnosis on Facebook? Who knew cancer needed a social consultant?

I’ve struggled with the awkwardness of cancer ever since my diagnosis back in June. When I told people my news, some people froze, falling silent. One person immediately began telling a story of an aunt who had died from a brain tumour. “Will you lose your hair?” someone blurted out. “Are you going to die?”.

Breaking the news of my diagnosis felt like an existential game show in which people rushed to buzz in with the first thought that came to mind.

I admit to sometimes being hurt by the way my friends have reacted to my news. Some didn’t write or call at all. Those who did often sounded uncomfortable and distant. I needed their support, and I wondered where they were.

When I was first in the hospital, some of my visitors seemed so intent on not upsetting me that they avoided the topic of cancer altogether. Others just couldn’t seem to find any words. When two uni friends came to visit, I watched their faces fall as they took in the sight of my bald head and sunken cheekbones. The last time we’d seen each other was in class. An awkward silence ensued, and I sensed it was up to me to take the initiative. I took a deep breath: “So, can you believe how weird I look without any hair?”

But in the year since my diagnosis, my feelings of hurt have given way to understanding. How can I expect anyone to produce the perfect, reflexive response to such sudden and unpleasant news? Cancer can catch even the best of us off guard. Sometimes the emotions come pouring out. Sometimes they stay locked inside. I’ve realised that it’s nearly impossible to summon the “right” words while simultaneously processing the news that someone you love has a life-threatening illness. I find myself counseling my friends and family that there is no perfect thing to say — but that they just have to say something.

And I admit to making my own mistakes. Mums cousin Brad had a stage 4 Glioma. As he described how the cancer had spread to his abdominal region and lungs, I clammed up. I said a few rote phrases and fled as soon as I could. I didn’t call him again for several months.

Over the course of those months, I thought of him often. I had repeated conversations, at the dinner table, about what Brad must be going through and how badly I wanted to help. My feelings were genuine, I even remember drafting and redrafting a letter to him. But I couldn’t find the right words. In the end, I never sent it. I was scared. Frozen. To him, it must have seemed as if I just didn’t care.

My own cancer experience has taught me that the most comforting words from friends have often been both the simplest and the most honest.