“I need a transplant,”

I hear myself say to one of my dearest friends, tears welling up in my eyes. Silence strikes me, and I feel the air thicken as I search her face for a reaction, some sort of acknowledgement or humanity — sadness, shock; anything, but there is none. She digested the news and decided perhaps it was best to pretend the story was minor. Nothing to be shocked about — something you heard every day.
“When will you need it?” She converses.
At that moment, my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. I want to cry, but instead, I iron-up and shield my face — trying to match my friend’s stoic expression. I know this might be a defence mechanism for her, but in that instance, I realized that the support I needed was going to be very hard to find.
What I required was someone who could cry with me or someone who could just encourage me and let me mourn; without making me feel awkward or silly—someone who let my face screw up and cry ugly tears.

“Most of all, I just wanted people to be human. To tap into their empathy a little and to express it.”

I had received many hopeful remarks and gestures of help, but it never really amounted to anything. I knew my friends meant well but when your mind is a mess; and your heart is broken, and your will is shattered, you feel no authority to ask anyone for anything. What am I going to ask? For a kidney? That’s what I need. “Can you be my donor?”—this is precisely what I need. Everything else is primitive. Food? Not hungry. Clothes? Who cares. Money? Won’t need it if I can’t live. I needed vulnerability. I needed someone to be vulnerable so that I could be vulnerable too. I needed permission to feel.
Instead, it would’ve been much more productive if someone said,
“I am here for you if you need anything. Seriously. Anything. How about I come over, and we can cry, laugh, and watch your favourite movie?” 
“Would you like some books? I’ve read a few good ones and can bring some over.” 
“Let’s go for a walk! I can pick you up in 10!” 
“How are you doing? I know it must be difficult right now, but I’m thinking of you, and I’m going to be with you on this journey.” 
Most of all, I just wanted people to be human. To tap into their empathy a little and to express it. And you could ask me why I didn’t just tell someone? Well, it was because I knew they meant well, and I didn’t want to be an inconvenience. You have to understand that while my life was drastically put on pause, I acknowledged that everyone else’s kept going.
I know we’ve all been there. Silenced, stunted, and pining for words when a close one slaps us with some horrible news. It’s not a refusal to console the friend; it may naturally just be, hesitancy. Perhaps being “the positive one” or “the hopeful one” is what we believe as appropriate. We assume the role of a pillar and a stronghold, so we say things like,
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” 
Or, “Everything is going to be alright.”
Or, “Stay strong. You’ve got this!” 
Or maybe even, “Just think about all the other people who have it worse than you. It could be worse.” (And yes, I’ve received all of these remarks). They all sound reasonable enough—encouraging, hopeful, positive, objective.  Perhaps we even say it because we need to convince ourselves of the same positivity.
Or perhaps we wonder if it’s best to stay quiet lest we say the wrong thing. I think this is the worst yet—to be met with silence. Or when someone ignores the gravity of the current situation by maintaining an uncompromised composure. Ironically, this is mistaken for passivity and for being dismissive. It is not taken with acceptance or gratitude. Instead, it feels that I’m a nuisance for sharing my bad news. In fact, silence makes me think that this is not someone I would like to keep around because this person feels absent when I’m in most need of support. 

“Right now it’s not about you, It’s about her.”

Allow me to go a little further. Telling a person in need that she’s strong and that “she’s got this” is a kind of false, useless statement at the time because 1) she doesn’t want to be strong right now. She’s exhausted, worried, scared, defeated. 2) deep inside of her, she knows she’s strong. She’s probably gone through a lot already. And 3) things aren’t fine, and quite frankly, it might not be fine for a while, and she knows it. Instead, tell her it’s okay to cry and to be scared. The best phrase that my father had ever said to me was to “let it out” as he held me while I wept. And if you think it might not be the “right time” to talk because she’s “being strong” or she “looks happy”, it almost always is. Everyone likes to be checked on. It takes five seconds to find her on her own and ask her how she’s doing. To give her a little squeeze on the arm and say, “let’s talk when we get some privacy.” 
Or even sending her a text after the fact that says,
“Hey! It was so good seeing you today. Let’s grab some coffee next week! I want to know how you are.” 
Just merely acknowledging her struggles and reminding her someone remembers is enough to help her pass another day. We all need time to grieve, and we all want someone to grieve alongside.
Most of all, whatever you say or do, mean it. I mean really mean it so that the one in need feels that you do. Get over your fear of discomfort. Right now it’s not about you. It’s about her.