Slowly, imperceptibly the tone changed. A bit of snark crept in when I was past the worst of things. And, to be honest, it was welcome.
Sometimes, things just need to be called out as shitty and unfair. Which my mates did.
It made a nice change from the well-intentioned affirmations and nuggets of wisdom the more emotionally evolved in my circle felt were required.
One of them even lightened the mood with the quip, "Mate. You look terrible. It's like you've got cancer."
It made me laugh. Hard.
As did various comments about them needing to drop a few kilos and wondering if I'd recommend the disease.
Not only were these effective distractions, but they were shot through with unspoken messages of care.
Some of which emanated from the "let's just pretend it isn't happening" school of emotional connection.
Blokes being blokes, a process of one-upmanship took place and pretty soon we were down a gallows humour rabbit hole darker than a Goth's wardrobe.
For example, requests were made for certain items of technology should I not make it through treatment.
My deteriorating appearance also came in for some stick and — mostly — it was fine.
It was at this point that I asked my partner to provide a group update that involved being re-hospitalised after my white blood cell count plummeted like the price of a Sydney investment unit.
She was horrified at what she read. The word "awful" was used.
Along with "d*ckheads", "tossers", "cretins" and one which rhymed with "truckblitz".
Her friends, she exclaimed, would never say such hideous things. Especially if she was going through one of the most challenging times of her life. Of course they wouldn't.
So what is it with men? Why is it that we can be civil to strangers in the most trying of conditions but utter a**eholes to our mates through good times and bad?
Part of it comes back to the old stereotypes about men and emotion — or more accurately the expression thereof.
As decried as this restrictive behaviour is, and despite all indications that younger men are evolving in the right direction, it still exists. And denying it won't make it go away.
So when my mate asks if he can have my watch if shit goes down, I know the subtext is "I am here for you. Any time of the day or night. Whatever is required. Just pick up the phone".
I don't need it stately explicitly, because the implicit is clear and concise.
Not only that, everyone is spared the discomfort of having to use the words "I love you" to someone we're not sleeping with.
At least without several whiskeys on board at a special occasion like a wedding.
We know mate. We know. C'mon, it's an open bar.
So all well and good right? But what happens when it's not? One or two comments during the cancer treatment crossed the line but it was mainly just Graham/Mark/Mick/Damo being Graham/Mark/Mick/Damo.
Besides, it was just a continuation of the previous "hanging shit on each other" dynamic which stretched back years and, despite first glance, actually deepens the bond.
As in we wouldn't say such things if we didn't love each other.
And yet. There are two things I wish I could say. The first is that the odd comment really stings. The purple angry psyche bruise lasts years.
The second is that I would like to point this out to the perpetrators. It's the how I can't get past. I fear even a comment like "whoa that's a bit rough" might forever alter the dynamic.
I don't want my mates feeling like they have to second guess themselves around me.
You could glibly respond that I need to upgrade my mates.
But I won't. Because they've been there through the hardest of times and told me so — in the most roundabout, sometimes borderline-insulting kind of ways.
And right now, or perhaps, ever, I'm not sure I want to risk that.
