I can get pretty touchy about being touched.

My mother tells of one of the nurses in hospital the day I was born, who informed her that she had 'just given birth to a very determined young lady.' I remember a conversation with one of my own when Annie was born. I was baffled by the odd crying patterns of the little alien that had only recently been handed to me through a drug-induced haze. They went like this:

Put baby down- crying starts.
Pick baby up- crying stops.

This was repeated. Repeatedly. Interminably.
I asked the nurse whether there was something wrong with her.
Nurse: No. You've just got a cuddly baby.
P: But I'm not cuddly.
Nurse: You'd better learn to be.

I have not yet learned to be, not with anyone outside my very closest circle. The circle, at the moment, consists of one person. Ann. It has stretched to include various beaus and the occasional husband before contracting again, unfortunately, because there are some sorts of contact that I like rather alot, otherwise it is a very exclusive circle. When I hug people to say hello, the touch is quick and perfunctory, however much I like them. And I DO like them. I just don't like getting touched by them. I am happy holding babies and my mother's hand, and wrestling with my nephews and nieces, and ... well, that's about it. No problem with massages or manicures, and I'm sure the reason for that is buried somewhere in a few hours' worth of therapy. However, touching generally sets my teeth on edge.

Where is this going?
Here:

Cancer, like pregnancy, makes people think they can touch you. Or maybe that you need to be touched. Not sure which, and not sure that I care. I have had more arms put around me and back pattings and head strokings and hand holdings in the last three weeks than in the last three years.
Not even just from people who are really very nearly in the circle, and from whom I willingly accept contact because I understand that it is appropriate and affectionate and that I need to just wind in my neck about it, no.
This is from those who have barely shared a conversation with me throughout the whole of our acquaintance, or those who are slightly nearer, but who start the patting/stroking/hand-holding and then seem to be unable to detach from me, and either do it with a rueful smile as they talk about all the lovely hats I shall be able to wear when I am bald (and this fascinates SO many people) or with the sympathetic grimace and furrowed brow of feigned understanding.

This is from those who are NOT reading this, because I have not shared the link with them. And I do not know what to do with it. I do not like it. I also do not want to be rude and respond with what is in my head when it happens. That noise starts with a cat's hiss and collapses into an ugly, screeching, banshee howl. I wish to upset no one, but am on the verge of getting rather upset myself. Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me.  I honestly don't mind the talk about hats, and can bear the sympathetic grimaces, but please please please- don't stroke me. Unless you are a gorgeous, strapping 6 footer without commitment issues or mommy issues or ex-wife issues or hysterectified, half-bosomed women issues or issues issues. I would consider strokes from you if you are that guy. And if you are that guy, then you are obviously not reading this anyway. Because there is no 'that guy'.

I accept that I am not the same as everybody else in this regard. Some people want to be touched. I understand that I need to be more willing to engage with this and sometimes, need to offer the hug and the pat and the stroke myself. But Lord, it's difficult. It feels like an invasion, and that makes me uncomfortable.

How should you respond, then if you can't offer a comforting hug? First, don't worry about the damned hug. Tell me how to fix it, maybe. Tell me that I'm gorgeous, maybe, and that I won't look like Uncle Fester when my hair falls out. Laugh at me a bit. Laugh at my black jokes and understand that I will be completely irreverent about the whole process, except for those bleak moments when I can't seem to breathe or stop crying. And when I can't breathe or stop crying, hand me a tissue and step back. It will pass and I will get it back together and start laughing again. And I will be so much more grateful for it. 

The touches are less helpful than the touching demonstrations of real support. Filling my freezer so that I don't have to cook? Girls, you are flipping fanTAStic!! Thank you, thank you, thank you! Helping me move house and making sure the apartment is clean before I go? I love you!! Offering to fetch my mother from the airport and loan Bert a car when he's here? So much better than patting my hand! So much less likely to receive a pop in the nose or a banshee howl than patting my hand!!

Ah, my wonderful friends. Forgive my untouchy-ness, and my touchiness about it. Please.  If you ever want a hug, ask. I barely know alot of people who seem to be happy to oblige.