"Now That Books Mean Nothing", Nell Boeschenstein

Boeschenstein has written an essay about her struggle to recover from a double mastectomy. Although most of her piece is about her seemingly odd turn from bibliophile to bibliophobe, she writes something that I hope a lot of us think about:

It’s not easy or appropriate to tell people who love you and who are trying to help you that what they are doing is not helping, that books are not what you want or need, that what you want and need right now are flowers, letters—notes, even—stupid movies, something that might help you feel pretty, emails that contain funny anecdotes from the outside world. That what you want is quiet company, conversation, to talk about you or him or her or whatever, who cares, that the last thing you want is to be left alone either with your thoughts or with a book chock full of someone else’s thoughts and into which your own encroach all too easily. Minds can become Frankensteins, and you’ve gotten gun-shy of yours and the noises it makes in the night.

Never assume you know what's going through the mind of someone facing serious illness. Tread lightly until you figure out what kind of company, if any, he or she wants. Yes, you're walking on eggshells and it adds to your tension, which may add to the tension in the room -- but get past that stage and be the loved one you're supposed to be.

(Thanks to LongReads for the link.)