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.

My friend Denise told me about this place and went with me. She’d been to see Dr. Zhang several times and gave me an idea of what to expect. “You tell him everything that’s wrong with you,” Denise said. “He writes it down in Chinese characters and hands the paper to a guy who goes in the back room and comes back with your powder,” she added, laughing at the simple and odd exchange. Dr. Zhang also doesn’t speak English very well, Denise mentioned, a fact that convinced us both that whatever he was going to prescribe was sure to work. But perhaps I should explain what lead me here in the first place.

You could say I’ve become a connoisseur of chemo concoctions: Carboplatin, Taxol, Cisplatin. And now I’ve got another to add to the list: Doxil. After my doctors found some residual cancer in my abdomen a month ago, I’ve spent time testing out this latest cocktail at the Memorial Sloan chemo suite, an exclusive spot in midtown Manhattan. It’s members only—the kind of place where everybody knows my name. And when I stop by, they already know what I’m having. Doxil, straight up. It’s a Cosmopolitan-martini-colored chemo that’s red on the way in and the way out. I spend an hour or two at “the Suite,” as it’s called by regulars,  and leave there feeling good. It’s the following days that are the problem. I get a nasty little hangover that makes me tired and lethargic. I figure the best way to combat that lies in the secrets of the Far East. Folks there have been healing people since before Jesus was born.

So that brings me back to Dr. Zhang.

Denise and I checked in with his assistant. She took my blood pressure, examined my tongue, and felt my pulse. “Dr. Zhang isn’t in today,” the assistant told us in near-perfect English. Denise and I looked at each other half defeated. No Dr. Zhang? No difficulty communicating with wise alternative-medicine practitioners? My mystical encounter was not turning out like I had hoped, but I figured I’d make the best of it.

After a quick consultation, Dr. Zhang’s assistant wrote out my prescription, which, thankfully, included Chinese characters and handed it to the man in the back. I was instructed to stay away from shrimp, crab, and peanuts. The logic here I know not, and I didn’t ask any questions. Within minutes, I had my loot—a $35 bag full of dusty-colored powder that smells organic and wholesome. The directions were easy: “Four spoonfuls mixed with three cups of water. Boil for five to 10 minutes. Drink one cup in the morning, one at night after meal.”

I left Dr. Zhang’s a little disenchanted by his absence but eager to brew my first batch of healing tea. The next morning, I got started. Other than the minerally grains that settle at the bottom of the cup, the tea isn’t awful.  I’ve been drinking  it twice a day ever since. I have absolutely no clue what I’m consuming, but I can already feel it working. Surely, this is my magic potion, the serum that will lead to good health going forward. Cause, honestly, I’m over the Suite. It’s so 2008. It’s time for me to find a new hangout.

… to be continued.

This morning, I was watching Regis and Kelly and, to my delight, I learned that Ms. Ripa, whom I really like, is the spokesperson for The Ovarian Cancer Research Fund. It seems she’s hatched a plan to get people to buy handbags and appliances in the name of ovarian cancer. In celebration of Valentine’s Day, she’s sponsoring a virtual bake sale with Electrolux. For every cupcake you make online, $1 will be donated to help fight ovarian cancer. Hey, whatever it takes. If purchasing a designer purse or an energy-smart refrigerator means saving more lives (and extending my own) then I say bring on the mass production, people. Plus, that’s good for the economy, right?

There’s also new news this week about the results of a study calling for clinicians and medical researchers to chart and address the unmet needs of ovarian cancer patients. Experts believe there is significant opportunity to improve the diagnoses and outlook for women like me. It all starts with identifying the symptoms of ovarian cancer, which until recently had been largely unknown. Turns out, those who study the disease are finding that most women, me included, often suffer from bloating, weight loss or gain, and digestion issues. More findings will be released soon, and I’ll be sure to keep documenting.

In the meantime, if Kelly Ripa is your friend (I’ll even settle for Facebook friend), tell her that you know a fabulous ovarian cancer slayer who would love nothing more than to promote the cause with her. I wonder if I could get a free handbag.