For many, the ringing of a phone is a minor annoyance or a welcome interruption. But for someone like me—a breast cancer survivor—it can feel like an intrusion into a life already stretched thin by medical appointments, recovery, and the quiet battle to reclaim normalcy. Telephone solicitors and telemarketers, with their scripted pitches and relentless calls, often don’t realize the impact they have on people whose days are measured not by sales quotas but by survival. My message to them is simple: your call might be more than an inconvenience—it could be a disruption to someone fighting for their peace.
“What I’d love to see is empathy baked into the system. Train telemarketers to listen, not just pitch. If someone says, “I’m recovering from cancer,” let that be a cue to end the call gracefully, not push harder.”Barbara Jacoby
When I was diagnosed with breast cancer three years ago, my world shifted overnight. Suddenly, my phone became a lifeline—connecting me to doctors, family, and support groups. Every ring carried weight: a test result, a rescheduled chemo session, or a friend checking in. But amidst this, the telemarketers kept calling. “Can we interest you in a new insurance plan?” they’d ask, oblivious to the fact that I was already drowning in medical bills. “How about a vacation package?”—as if I could pack my bags and leave the IV drips behind. Their persistence wasn’t just tone-deaf; it felt like a cruel reminder of a life I couldn’t live.
Survivors like me aren’t alone in this frustration. Studies show that unwanted calls disproportionately affect vulnerable populations—seniors, the chronically ill, and those recovering from trauma. For us, the phone isn’t just a device; it’s a tether to stability. When you’re bald from treatment, nauseous from meds, or just trying to nap after a sleepless night, the last thing you need is a robotic voice pitching a timeshare. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve hung up, hands trembling, only for the phone to ring again minutes later.
I get it—telemarketers are doing a job. Many are just trying to pay bills, too. But there’s a disconnect here that needs addressing. The Do Not Call Registry, meant to shield us from these intrusions, feels like a flimsy shield; plenty of callers skirt the rules or claim exemptions. And while I could silence my phone, that’s not an option when I’m waiting for a critical update from my oncologist. So, to the solicitors on the other end of the line, I ask: imagine the person you’re calling isn’t just a lead. Imagine they’re someone like me—someone who’s been through hell and is still clawing their way back.
What I’d love to see is empathy baked into the system. Train telemarketers to listen, not just pitch. If someone says, “I’m recovering from cancer,” let that be a cue to end the call gracefully, not push harder. Better yet, invest in technology to flag households with known medical struggles—hospitals and insurance companies already have this data; why not share it responsibly? And for the companies behind these calls, consider a pause. Is that extra sale worth the cost of someone’s fragile calm?
Today, I’m in remission, but the echoes of cancer linger. I’m stronger, yes, but I still flinch when the phone rings unexpectedly. To the telemarketers out there, I don’t hate you—I just want you to see me. Not as a number on a list, but as a person who’s fought to be here. Next time you dial, think: could this be someone rebuilding their life? If so, maybe let the line go quiet. Sometimes, silence is the kindest thing you can offer.
Barbara Jacoby is an award winning blogger that has contributed her writings to multiple online publications that have touched readers worldwide.