Let Your Colleagues In

In 2023, I lost a close colleague in my department to cancer; she was very private, and she had told few people about her prognosis. We had been working together on a search committee for a new assistant professor position when she informed us that she would be entering hospice care; she died a few days later. It was a devastating loss and a surprise to many of her colleagues who, like me, considered her a friend.

When I was diagnosed with colon cancer a year later, I decided to be open with my colleagues and friends about my diagnosis. The outpouring of support helped me a great deal as I struggled to understand what was happening to my body. I tried to continue teaching, but when I had to pause class several times to vomit (an unfortunate side effect of chemotherapy for me was severe nausea), I knew my body couldn’t keep up with my desire to be there for my students.

I initially remained stubborn but capitulated when a colleague, with genuine care and desire to help, offered to take over my teaching load. I couldn’t believe someone would do that for me out of the goodness of their dear heart—the semester had just started and there were many lectures left to give. Others also helped me and my family, in many different ways, during my darkest times. The support from my lab, students and even administrators, allowing me to heal and work largely from home, meant a great deal to me.

As I was undergoing treatment, a colleague in another department reached out to me to reveal her own diagnosis. She had not told her other colleagues. She gave me useful tips about nausea and pain medications, but I was surprised she was able to power through her teaching, despite her cancer treatments; her passion for teaching helped her carry on. As she and I commiserated, I assumed she would eventually be fine. It was only after she went into hospice and died that most of her colleagues found out she had been battling cancer over the last year.

Her death, like the loss of my other colleague the year before, broke my heart. I wished they could have heard from their colleagues who loved them and would have wanted to be there for them. This support would not have saved their lives, but it might have brightened their last days. The support from colleagues may also have taken some of the burden of academic life off their plate at a time when they needed a lighter load the most.

Many people expect a cancer patient to go bald and be bedridden, but I came to realize that fighting and surviving cancer can look very different than our own expectations. When people said, “You look good,” no doubt just trying to be encouraging, they were seeing me in good weeks between chemotherapy sessions—I wasn’t looking very good those treatment weeks. And despite external appearances, I was a tired and tangled mess on the inside.

A valuable lesson that I learned was that despite being in a vulnerable health state, I could be a resource to other academics, especially more junior colleagues going through similar issues. Doctors and nurses can tell you how to heal your body, but it was my academic colleagues who helped me improve my mindset to get back to the work and lab life that I loved—especially those colleagues with experiences with cancer. I was fortunate in many ways that I was already a full professor when diagnosed; I already had a lab that was rather self-sufficient and staffed with experienced people. Unfortunately, pretenure or recent post-tenure faculty have many more added pressures on them.

When yet another academic friend, a junior colleague, was diagnosed with cancer, I was able to do more than reach out and say, “Let me know if I can do anything.” I knew the best thing to give her, which was my favorite thing to receive, was an open line of communication to commiserate. I was glad senior administrators in her department had already canceled her upcoming classes, despite her protests. I explained that they were looking out for her, and that she needed time to see how cancer would treat her. I explained that it was time for her to give herself some grace, re-evaluate her priorities and focus on what mattered—i.e., her health. I was amazed to learn that as she progressed through her treatments, she, like many a good hopeless academic, kept scrupulous records of her diet, feelings, pain and suffering in a detailed logbook.

When I learned more recently that my cancer was back, I was devastated, as was my family, who must bear the brunt of my care and pain. My main distraction from worrying and self-pity has been my work. I slipped in an academic conference (as well as a much-needed road trip with my family) during my short remission. Seeing old colleagues and watching nervous students present their research made me feel like a normal scientist again. Discussing possible collaborations and future work gave me energy that I thought had melted away because of my diagnosis.

Still, when colleagues at the conference would say, “You’ll be OK,” I’d cringe inside. Those words somehow didn’t come across as comforting, but I also knew it wasn’t easy for people to understand what I was experiencing. At those times I’d text my more junior colleague with the cancer diagnosis and vent about my worries, as she had done with me. Sometimes you just need to share your feelings and pain with someone who will understand.

Nonacademics might have a harder time understanding that I worried about my ability to mentor my graduate students during my convalescence and that I regretted not being there to host speakers I had invited to present in my department. That friendship and collegiality with academic colleagues helped me not only feel better but hopefully gave me more experience to help others in similar situations.

I learned so much by letting my colleagues in (i.e., informing them of my diagnosis and the fears that stem from it) and can testify to how much their support could lift me up. I understand that some people feel the need to be more private about their health issues, particularly those who might feel like they are in a more tenuous job position. Others feel the need to be stoic and brave on their own. I had thought the same; perhaps having that stiff upper lip is a trait many academics acquire through the daily grind of our profession. But not letting your academic colleagues in can deny you the chance to get help when you need it, like having your classes covered, and from sources you might never have expected.

Ever since I went more public with my own health problems, I was shocked to learn that several of my colleagues were dealing with similar difficulties in silence. Remaining private about their health is of course their choice, and I am grateful to them for at least letting me commiserate with them. I regret I wasn’t always able to do that with those friends and colleagues I’ve lost (who told virtually no one). I wish they had given me the opportunity to tell them what they meant to me, as so many of my circle of friends, family and colleagues have done for me this past year.

I’m glad I let my colleagues into the usually more private side of my life, and I’m grateful for their help and kind words that cheered me up in so many ways. Letting your colleagues see your vulnerability and letting them share their concern, well-wishes and help gives you an opportunity to embrace their compassion when you need it the most.