I have forgotten how to do small talk. I find myself standing there, or sitting there and I hear what the people around me are discussing but I cannot for the life of me figure out how to respond. I normally enjoy the easy conversation with my hairdresser, but hearing her talk about her upcoming trip to Cancun tonight, and how she’s been at the tanner in preparation…all that runs through my head now is, “Cancer! Cancer!” And so I sit, in awkward silence, not knowing how to form shallow words of polite conversation.

People at work have heard the news now and stop to offer their love and support but I have trouble even standing there, trouble accepting the hugs, the sympathies, the sincere offers of help. I just want to run. I want to be alone. No, I just want to be with James.

In all fairness, I’ve never known what to say to someone in tragic situations. “I am so sorry,” has never had weight to me, and yet beyond that, I never knew what words could even do to help lighten a load during difficult times. I don’t begrudge anyone for their attempts to show concern or to offer support, I just honestly don’t know what to do with it. They get to hug me and say they are sorry and then they get to walk away and discuss it all over dinner or a glass of wine with the people they love who are not going through this at all. They get to be sad for a moment and then they get to get on with life.

“How is James feeling?” people ask. “Well, he’s been better,” I say.

“Well, yes, but I mean, how does he feel?” they will persist.

“Terrified,” I respond.

I’m sure there’s a better answer, and I’m sure people with better filters than me have those responses at the ready, but I applaud myself for not screaming, “How the hell do you think he is doing? He was fine a month ago and now he knows he has Stage 4 metastatic melanoma. It’s in his lungs, his spleen, his liver and his bones. How the hell would you be doing?” I mean, I don’t say that.

But I want to.

Two younger women walked into the salon. They had a six pack of White Claws and a $200 straightener that they wanted the other stylist to show them how to use. They sat and chatted about their lives while getting highlights and color, about lives far wilder than mine has ever been. “Ah, the freedoms that come with being kidless,” my stylist, a mother of four who keeps taking in foster children said. “Ah, twenty-somethings who haven’t had a difficult hand dealt to them just yet,” I thought.

I came home and James was already in bed. I curled up beside him and sobbed. He held me and understood far better than any that words can’t fix this. There wasn’t any small talk between us, just tears.