Fighter, warrior, survivor ― all inadequate, says author Dana Jennings. Cancer just is, and that’s pretty much all there is to it.

Point taken.

Actually, the piece makes a lot of sense. Some people just end up with life-threatening illnesses, serious ailments, bunions, etc., and others don’t. According to Jennings, life happens, you roll with the punches, and you don’t get to bestow special titles on yourself just because you’re diagnosed with cancer.

It’s a fresh perspective, I’ll say that much. After a lifetime of thinking of cancer patients as the ultimate troupers, Jennings’ take is a bit disarming. And although his column is definitely worth reading, I found myself disagreeing almost from the start.

Jennings isn't really feeling any of the above

Words, while often unable to completely define who we are, are indeed powerful, especially when it comes to self-identity. Referring to yourself as black, a woman, an American not only affects how you see the world but also how you see yourself.

And as a journalist, words are doubly important to me. When strung together, they can become a best seller, spark a protest, or make someone laugh. Even on their own, they can command attention. Consider, for example, the always offensive nigger, fag, or bitch. Or on the other end of the spectrum, the beauty of words like luscious, passionate, or luxurious.

Even the most banal words can become something more when we assign new or expanded meaning to them, and this is what happens with cancer. For many of us with the disease, the term survivor is more than just a catchphrase; it’s a call to action, a way to establish some sense of power in a situation where losing control mentally can happen very quickly.  For Jennings, however, it’s simply another one of cancer’s clichés:

“I sometimes think of cancer as a long and difficult journey, a quest out of Tolkien, or a dark waltz — but never a battle,” he writes. “How can it be a battle when we patients are the actual battleground?”

Maybe I’m missing the point here, but I would absolutely describe my experience with cancer as a battle. And, yes, my body is the front line, ground zero if you will, but my brain is constantly churning out orders for it to follow. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t warn myself not to get pulled in too deeply by cancer’s undertow. I remind myself pretty regularly that I can triumph over this disease, that I can fight the beast and live to tell about it.

What Jennings fails to acknowledge is that there is a reason why talking about life-altering illnesses evokes images of confrontation and struggle. Cancer strips us bare, and always the main goal, the only goal really, is to fight to stay alive. There aren’t many other analogies that can suffice.

The bottom line is that chronic diseases of all kinds breed toughness, and, as a result, a language has developed around them that is in no way trite or threadbare.

I call myself a survivor, a warrior, or better yet a slayer because when I do, those words make me feel strong — never inadequate.

Since my diagnosis, a few friends, some extended family members, and random acquaintances have said some downright peculiar things to me. They range from the bizarrely sympathetic: “I couldn’t bring myself to call you, but I cried like a baby when I found out you were sick,” a family friend told me. I actually felt bad for upsetting her. To the straight-up indifferent: “We’re all going to die,” wrote one guy in response to my first post. Uh, thanks, I guess.

Although slightly inelegant, shall we say, such comments are really just people’s way of showing they care. And while I appreciate the effort, it’s clear that it’s time for a cancer etiquette intervention.

Consider this list of dos and don’ts as a crash course to navigating your next cancer survivor encounter. Only the basics are covered here. Of course, there are some gray areas (is it okay to be mean to a crabby cancer patient?), mitigating circumstances (should you tell a friend that her drawn-on eyebrows aren’t in the right shade or shape?), and times when you just have to make fun of people, cancer or not. In those cases, my advice is do what you have to do. This is simply a primer, a blueprint to ensure that you stay within the bounds of appropriateness. It’s not hard. When in doubt, remember flattery is always your ace.

1. DON’T say I’m sorry. We know you mean well, but opt for something a bit more uplifting such as, “Let me buy you a drink for your bravery on the battlefield.”

2. DON’T send sappy or generic get-well cards. Is there anything more depressing than the Hallmark sympathy section? Ugh. A good sense of humor is crucial to conquering the cancer beast. Send messages filled with sarcasm and humor worthy of our valor.

3. DON’T say it’s only hair. We know it will grow back, but being bald with no eyebrows makes even the prettiest woman look like a Cabbage Patch Preemie. Refer to rule number 6 for more guidance here.

4. DON’T talk to us about survival rates. If I had a cash payout every time someone told me they had a friend whose outlook wasn’t so bright but went on to live for many years, I could cover my hospital bills. People battling cancer want to focus on living, period.

5. DON’T spout trite expressions like, “God won’t give you anything you can’t handle.” Trust me, that’s one we’ve figured out already. When overcome with the urge to utter said cliche, refer to rule number 10.

6. DO tell us how our real our wig looks. Good ones aren’t cheap. We’ll play along. If the cancer patient in your life prefers a bald head, tell her how nicely shaped it is.

7. DO invite us on a trip and foot the bill. It’s been a rough journey; sympathy vacations are always welcome.

8. DO expect us to play the “cancer card.” It’s the only good thing to come out of all this. We reserve the right to use it whenever it gives us an advantage with a cop, a bill collector…you get the idea.

9. DO throw parties in our honor. For mine, please extend an invitation to my gay boyfriend, my Hollywood crush, a certain phenomenal band that I liked way before everyone else, and my soon-to-be BFF. And somebody bring some Pabst Blue Ribbon.

10. DO tell us how fabulous we are. Going from sickly to simply fabulous is a lot of work. Feel free to compliment us regularly.

Now that you know the basics, charge forth with confidence. Tell a friend, tell a friend of a friend, and let’s put those awkward civilian-survivor moments behind us forever.