The Lost Art of Saying Hello
How cancer shapes the meaning of privacy, boundaries, and meeting new people.
It was five minutes past the hour when Mark entered the café. In perfect sync, every head turned to witness his climatic apology for being late. As I’d quickly come to realize, Mark's presence never went unnoticed, even without the velvety texture of his American accent spreading across the room. He was wearing a bright green Hawaiian shirt, sprinkled with tiny white palm trees, and a red trucker hat with the word NASHVILLE across the forehead. His beard and hair were immaculately groomed, accessorized by black frame glasses. His arms were covered in fading, uncrafty tattoos. If the urban lumberjack movement could be traced back to its origins, the founding father was standing in front of me.
Our interaction added flair to the little free show he had started and I could sense those around us trying to guess what we might be to each other. We didn’t display the intimacy of old friends nor the excitement of new lovers but 10.05 on a Monday morning was a strange time for a first date. Adding to the disparity, my Nordic complexion didn’t match my native fluency, whereas he looked like he could be local but got lost somewhere between Brooklyn and Vegas. I was feeling uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed. I was also enjoying the attention. I wanted it to end as much as I wanted it to last. It’d been a while since I’d done this. Whatever this was.
A common friend had sent an email, from a few countries away, putting us in contact. As a reply, we first met for an evening drink at one of those old pubs unfazed by world wars and wallpaper decay. There, between stale peanuts and dubious cocktails, I showed an academic interest in the history of his love life, doubling it down with an anthropological inquiry about the local dating scene — effectively throwing us both into the friendzone pool from the get-go. Splash. In my flimsy defense, the years of survivalistic dating, in the dystopian love landscape that is Berlin, annihilated any type of instinct for mating rituals. Thus, it wasn’t all that surprising that a few days later, over coffee, eggs, and curious eyes, I couldn’t read Mark’s intentions. Or mine, for that matter. Perhaps there were none. Most probably, my anxiety got us both doing metaphorical swimming laps for nothing. But there was an inner challenge bigger than customary insecurity or patriarchal disappointment.
Cancer created a duality in my mind I struggle to reconcile. There’s the part that, despite the odds and the scalpels, kept passion and desire alive. It’s the part that knows how ephemeral life is, how much every minute counts. I can sense it craving and aching to love, to be loved. It’s hopeful, stubborn, resilient. In contrast, its counterpart is the one throwing me into pools at any sign of perceived danger, in an attempt to protect a body and a soul still counting their losses. In doing so, it became pragmatic, harsh, ruthless. It sees no strength in vulnerability, only pain. It considers the longing for love and lust as a futile act, arguing that I should know better than to make claims amongst the normal, the healthy, the lovable, the living.
It’s a herculean task to play referee between these two polarizing forces, especially when they are clashing in front of a stranger, muted to the world but shouting inside my head. Yet, somehow, Mark’s melodic Texas drawl was lowering the volume of the orchestra within. His stories were both intriguing and entertaining. Was his brother really in a band with movie director Robert Rodriguez? Did he really sail to Colombia with a Captain Philips, meeting his future wife upon docking the ship? Did he really watch Friends in the breakroom of a Colorado minimum security prison? Truth or plot, he was a great storyteller and breakfast turned into an interview served with food. I kept on asking about his life in Dallas, Boulder, New Orleans, Jacksonville, Long Beach, and he kept on providing tales full of cliffhangers and memorable characters. There were also dark parts to it — addiction, drug dealing, an ugly divorce. From my side of the table, I knew I was dropping hints about my own reality. There is absolutely no way of having a deeper conversation with someone without mentioning, at the very least, that I was (am) sick.
My whole existence changed in a visceral way because of cancer. Everything I now experience, good or bad, is strapped to it. Every step, and every decision, are taken in the awareness of my condition. It is a part of me. It is, in a way, me. But it cannot be all that reflects in the mirror. In a sort of existential paradox to keep myself whole, I started outlining separatist borders between me, cancer, and the world. A key factor for this approach was a simple, but hard-learned, lesson — not everyone can take it. For each person that becomes a part of your support system, there’s an array of bad reactions waiting along the road. Not knowing — or knowing exactly — what might lie ahead of the grand ‘I Have Cancer’ proclamation can be terrifying.
For instance, there are those you have to console about your own situation; those who pop up once in a while for their own conscious relief; and those who spontaneously evaporate, like vampires in the sun. Sadly, these reactions cannot be predicted by the role someone already plays in your life — a close friend can disappear, while an acquaintance will provide unmeasurable support. Such an emotional rollercoaster lends cancer the capacity to turn the ‘hellos’ and ‘how-are-yous’ that were once mindless greetings, into exam questions we’re no longer prepared for. Do we risk some sort of answer or do we leave it blank and move on? There’s a very fine line between healthy self-protection (risking an answer) vs. harmful social isolation (moving on) and it takes training to find the right balance.
Regardless, even on the most unbalanced of days, when isolation fully takes over, privacy is paramount to preserve what remains of my identity beyond the tight grip of cancer. Strong boundaries amid the realms of my life allow me to have room to breathe, to keep parts of my personality in neutral territory, and to be in charge of my own narrative. Worse than making The Proclamation is not having any control over it. For my own sanity, I must hold in my hands the option of being Alice the Person before I’m Alice the Patient. I, and I alone, decide how, when and with whom these versions of myself intersect. Not everyone is deserving (or capable) of reading our life’s story and we should be able to choose who gets a copy. But let me be clear — there’s no wrong choice here. It’s okay to be a cancer influencer with thousands of followers. It’s just as equally okay to rule Wakanda without telling anyone about your diagnosis.
I was going to tell Mark about it soon.
We’ve done drinks and breakfast, so only lunch was missing. Once again, there weren’t any awkward silences. In what had become our conversational dynamic, Mark took his time telling a story, whereas I took mine pondering over how much of it was unembellished truth, while still fully engaging with his words. The friend zone pool was actually a fun workout.
“Did you have cancer?” he asked, both sudden and casually, as if passing me a napkin to handle the mess I was making with the tacos.
I wasn’t surprised, given how many small references to illness, spirituality, and haircuts I had dropped. What surprised me was how well I took the bullet.
“Yes, I did. I still do.” I said, firmly and without hesitation.
Mark didn’t say anything right away but I could tell it wasn’t for a lack of reaction. I knew, by then, that there would be no pity, no wrong words, no allergy to holy water. He was giving me space to gather my thoughts, perhaps to add something more. Those who have been to hell and back recognize their own tribe.
“Cancer happened. It happened again. Someone left.” I continued.
It was a very brief but accurate summary of the previous three years — the tagline of the original trilogy, if you will. Year One was marked by the initial cancer diagnosis, extensive surgery, and grueling chemotherapy. Year Two, cancer was back and here to stay, according to those in white coats. Year Three, the person who held me through it all, who actively placed himself as my rock, got up and left in a Jack Berger post-it kind of way.
Mark looked at me with caring, comforting honesty. Addressing both cancer and heartbreak at once, he simply said, “I’m sorry. His loss.”
I smiled. It doesn’t take much to lift a person up from the ground.
After lunch, we walked around the hilly streets of Lisbon until we had to part ways, hugging goodbye when my bus arrived. I had gone back home to Portugal that Christmas with the intention of doing nothing but lying under a blanket, watching bad movies, eating my favorite childhood foods, and feeling sorry for myself. A wounded animal crawling back to its den. But that’s not how the story unfolded and in a last-minute plot twist, I ended up (re)discovering both myself and my hometown — all enabled by saying hello to someone new, an art I thought I’d lost.
It was a half an hour ride by the river shore. The sun was hitting the surface of the water, which in turn moved gently to reflect it, performing their own holiday light show. I was overwhelmed by melancholy, a feeling my chest knew all too well. Every time I depart a place that feels safe, my body implores me not to go. It’s human nature to stay away from harm, from trauma. I was flying back to Berlin the next day, January 1st. A brand new year was ready to introduce itself. It was time to go say hello.
