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Telling people I had breast cancer was unlike anything I'd ever had to do. The emotional distance between me and my words was palpable, like I was reciting a tall tale about someone else. Yet not telling was unthinkable.

I fumbled through different styles of "outing" myself — bluntly, indirectly, often apologetically. There were times when I didn't have the chance to plan my words, and no one could anticipate hearing them.

In my early days as a cancer patient, I was overwhelmed by fear as I became more exposed to the illness. I felt ashamed of the thoughts that flashed across my mind when I saw the superficial signs of cancer in others: the ill-fitting wig, the pasty complexion, the bruises from repeated rounds of chemotherapy and innumerable blood tests.

"Thank God that's not me" became my internal mantra, although this comfort was short-lived as my own treatment progressed. Still, these were silent words, never meant to be spoken, a device to keep my fears in check and give me the fortitude to get through each day.

I quickly began to seek out those same patients. Although my fear grew, I increasingly identified with them, and my humanity soon resurfaced. I became drawn to places where we could connect, as cancer equals, to share what I could not share with many others. We talked about diagnoses, treatments, side effects, staging, detection, recurrence, research, doctors. Small talk was rare.

But in encounters with people from the universe of the cancer-free, the "fact" of my cancer needed to be labelled. It lost that unstated quality that gave me such comfort in my new world.

What do you say to someone who tells you, right to your face, that they have cancer? When faced with this news, even people with the most stoic personalities were shocked, scared, uncomfortable. Rarely were they speechless. Yet their words, intended to console, were often puzzling. Well-meaning, but frequently as perplexing as the news was shocking.

"Breasts are overrated." "There are worse cancers than breast cancer." "Just don't think about it." "I have a friend who is Stage 6. But she has a very positive attitude." "I'm sure you'll be fine. My neighbour had breast cancer … twice." "You're so lucky. It could be worse." "Good luck with that."

At times, there was an intrusive quality to people's reactions that caught me off guard. What is it about breast cancer that transforms normally personal details about womanhood and illness into public matters for consumption in elevators and at water coolers?

Casual acquaintances peppered me with questions usually reserved for close friends and my doctor. I answered honestly if uncomfortably, for the most part, like a good woman, dutiful daughter and obedient patient.

"Is it serious?" (Yes, it's cancer.) "Did you lose your breast?" (No. And stop staring.) "What's your prognosis?" (Good, as far as I know.) "Did treatment put you into menopause?" (Not that I admit to.) "Are you going for support?" (Hmmm.)

Over time, my universe of people surviving cancer grew. I met other women with breast cancer in cancer seminars, cancer support groups, cancer yoga, cancer cooking class, cancer camp. I found comfort in the "mammary mafia," although we often had little else in common. Some had lost their breasts, a few had less positive prognoses than me, most admitted to being in menopause.

There is sadness and grieving over the world we have lost to a diagnosis of cancer. But there is laughter, and much of it, as we share the more absurd encounters we've had with the cancer-free. (Like the time the nurse at a community clinic asked me if I lost my hair everywhere.)

In some ways, the laughter is even more poignant than the tears because of the powerful bond it provides to a simpler life, before cancer.

We all recognize the good intentions obscured by the inadequacy of the spoken word, and we forgive those who seem so inept at merely conversing about our illness. Perhaps that's because we ourselves don't always know what to say, how to provide solace to each other in our unpredictable world of risk and hope, despair and comfort, abandon and rebirth. In the privacy of our own universe, we know that breasts are overrated. Most of us are lucky. It could almost always be worse.

Most people reacted to my cancer with genuine caring and concern. I relied mainly on the cancer-free to support me through a year of treatment and trauma. It proved to be too much for some, and a few never tried.

But there were many in both worlds with thoughtful words during my darkest moments, and even kinder gestures that, true to the cliché, spoke louder than words ever could. A call, a card, a dry shoulder were never far away. Some provided comfort through silence, so often welcome when words failed. I couldn't have survived without all of them.

Tammy Landau lives in Toronto.