I remember my reaction when my wife called me at work to say a radiologist looked at her mammogram results and said: "Sure looks like cancer to me."
I stupidly said, "Ew, that doesn't sound good." We talked about logistics: What to do next, when to tell our kids.
Then I said, "See you tonight." Hung up the phone. And stayed at work all day.
Yeah, definitely not a stellar response.
I went on to write a book about being a breast cancer husband, and during my research, a wise psychologist helped me understand that my seemingly heartless reaction was actually … a very human response. I was scared. I was in denial. It was easier to be in the office than to plunge into an unknown world of cancer and cancer caregiving. And let's face it, none of us really want to be told that someone you love has cancer.
I did recover from my disastrous start. By trial and many errors, I figured out that my role as caregiver was to support my wife.
Not to fix things but to be there for her in any way I could — taking notes at the doctor's meetings, listening to her thoughts about treatment options and giving her feedback (but obviously not telling her what to do), getting her flowers after a chemo session, or just giving her a back rub at a stressful moment.
One woman I interviewed for my book told me that "shut up and listen" should be the breast cancer husband's motto. (And really, any caregiver's goal.) And it is of course hard to do. But it's the only way to truly care for your loved one.
Yeah, it's a blunt message. And maybe a little glib. And while it applies well to many men, it can be good advice for any partner of a loved one who needs care.
Many people like to fix things (dare I say, especially the male of the species?). We rush in without knowing what we're doing because … we like action plans. After interviewing about 100 husbands and many cancer docs, I feel I can safely say that many people faced with a scary diagnosis of their partner are not necessarily good at just … listening. Which sometimes may mean just being empathetic and responding: "Yeah, cancer really does suck."
I even had a button made up with what I've come to think of as the breast cancer husband's motto: SHUT UP AND LISTEN!
It's been 20 years since the publication of Breast Cancer Husband: How to Help Your Wife (and Yourself) Through Diagnosis, Treatment and Beyond. But I think that's still good advice. I guess that's because even though the world has changed a lot, some things still hold true. Caregiving for a loved one is hard.
Now, I am facing a new caregiver role. My dear wife has been diagnosed with dementia. It is a crushing and horrible disease. It really, really does suck. And worst of all, now that her dementia has advanced, I have to make many decisions without being able to ask her what she wants. So it often feels like I can't really "shut up and listen."
Marsha now lives in a memory-care facility. I visit nearly every day. I try so hard to be the perfect spouse. But I've had some false starts.
At first, I felt as if my job was to entertain her. But during a typical 3-hour weekend visit, that's hard to do. Sometimes she would smile when I shared family photos and videos. And sometimes… not. And as her words faded, she was not able to tell me what she'd like me to do.
Then one day I visited and Marsha was drowsy. So I helped her into her bed, I climbed in bed next to her, and we took a nap together.
It was wonderful — a moment of togetherness that harkened back to past shared naps in our life together. And it dawned on me. Marsha is still trying to tell me what she wants me to do – sometimes with words she could conjure up, sometimes just by the look on her face.
Each visit I follow that cliché that I don't really like but is really true when it comes to caregiving: I meet her where she's at. Maybe we'll just listen to the Beatles streaming on Alexa and sing along. The smile on her face tells me if she's in a Beatles mood. (Although "In My Life" always brings a tear or three to my eye.)
Or maybe she's up for some of the exercises we try to work into her day — leg lifts, ankle rolls. As I help her with these moves, I can feel her taking over and doing it on her own.
There are days when she is agitated. Or when she doesn't seem to recognize me or respond to me. So I'll give her a back massage. Or just sit and hold her hand.
And of course sometimes I mess up and don't bring her joy and comfort. But sometimes I succeed.
I do tell her "I love you" a lot. That can bring a smile to her face. Sometimes she'll say, "You're wonderful." And I know I'm not all that wonderful. But it makes me happy to make her happy.
And to my surprise, the motto of Breast Cancer Husband still proves true.
We've begun going on walks in the neighborhood near the group home where she lives. I push the wheelchair that Marsha now uses. I just have to pretend it's not there and that we're out for a stroll because otherwise I would cry during the entire outing.
So we walk. And I blabber on about anything and everything — what our kids are up to, work gossip, pretty flowers we pass by, the mosquitoes that prefer me to her.
One afternoon, as I rambled on (and on and on), Marsha said, "Shut up."
Well, she always has been direct about expressing her wishes.
I didn't take it personally. I figured she just craved the sounds of silence. So I listened. And I shut up.
Copyright 2025 NPR
