Sometimes the Best Thing is Nothing
By Dave Balch, author “Cancer for Two” and founder
The Patient/Partner Project

   When my wife had her lumpectomy the results were not what 
we had hoped.  The surgeon could not get all of the tumor, 
which meant that she was going to have to have a mastectomy.
   At her post-surgical doctor visit Chris asked the 
question, “Am I going to die? Is this going to kill me? If 
so, how long do I have?”
   My fantasy was that he would say something like, “Don’t 
be silly! Your case isn’t serious and I’m sure you’ll be 
fine.”
   He didn’t.
   He got very serious and I could tell that he felt like he 
was on the spot, which he was.
   “The five-year survival rate for someone in your 
situation is about 50 to 60 percent,” he told her. I could 
tell he didn’t want to say it, and he sort of choked it out.
   Chris went pale. “You mean I only have about a 50-50 
chance of living for five years??” she asked him 
incredulously, her jaw dropping in disbelief.
   He told us that with her type of cancer and the stage 
that she was in and the fact that it had spread to the lymph 
system, studies show that survival rate.
   (As it turns out we discovered that “5-year survival 
rates” are misleading because those who have survived 5 
years or longer were treated with 5-year-old (or older) 
technology.  During their survival period the technology has 
improved, resulting in even longer survival rates for those 
treated with that new technology.  With that in mind, during 
the second opinion we were told that her survival chances 
were more like 70% - 80%.)
   On the way home, Chris was sleeping in the back of the 
car as she often did. We were driving along in the carpool 
lane and I heard Chris start to cry. Softly at first, it was 
the first (and only) time that I heard her cry about her 
illness. In a heart-wrenching tone that I had never before 
heard come out of her, she choked out the words, “I don’t 
want to die. Why is this happening to me?” and continued to 
sob.
   It absolutely broke my heart.  I couldn’t hold or comfort 
her; I couldn’t even touch her because she was in the back 
seat.  My eyes teared-up and I had to concentrate on 
driving, but I knew that I had to say something.  
   Or did I?  
   Everything that I considered saying seemed hollow, empty, 
or just plain stupid.  I was dying inside, not only at 
hearing her so distressed, but also at the thought that she 
might die.
   What could I possibly say? I couldn’t tell her not to 
cry; who am I to tell her not to cry or not to feel the way 
she did? She needed to cry. I couldn’t tell her it would be 
okay, because I didn’t know that and she knew that I didn’t 
know that. I always feel that when something is wrong it is 
my responsibility to fix it; it’s just a knee-jerk reaction 
that I have in many situations. I knew that I couldn’t fix 
this, so I didn’t say anything and just listened to her cry. 
It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I’m 
convinced it was the best thing I could have done under the 
circumstances. 
   Sometimes the best thing you can do to help is to do 
nothing at all.
   It seemed like she was crying for an eternity even though 
it was really only a few minutes; I will never forget those 
few minutes as long as I live.

© 2009, Dave Balch  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Dave Balch gives greater understanding and relieves stress 
and restores hope for cancer patients and their families.  
He was caregiver for his wife during four bouts of breast 
cancer and has now dedicated his life and career to helping 
others by founding The Patient/Partner Project. Resources 
include a book “Cancer for Two,” speaking programs, a DVD 
about coping strategies, and free web services.  Subscribe 
to his no-cost monthly newsletter, “Caring and Coping” at 
www.CaringAndCoping.com