These cards took on even more meaning when I learnt that their American designer, Emily McDowell, had also had cancer: Stage 3 Hodgkin's lymphoma, aged 24. So she knows exactly how I felt.
On her website, Emily says: "The most difficult part of my illness wasn't losing my hair, or being erroneously called 'sir' by Starbucks baristas, or sickness from chemo. It was the loneliness and isolation I felt when many of my close friends and family members disappeared because they didn't know what to say, or said the absolute wrong thing without realising it."
Oh yes, this all rings a bell. My own experience of cancer - please don't call it a "journey" (another of Emily's cards says "I promise not to refer to your illness as a journey unless someone takes you on a cruise", which sums up my feelings) began almost three years ago.
In May 2012, I found a hard, pea-sized lump at the front of my right breast by accident. I was leaning over my husband's computer, and accidentally brushed my thumb across my chest, and felt something. When I stood up, there was nothing. When I leant forwards again... there it was.
I knew from talking to my GP that a small, hard lump was a common symptom of breast cancer, so I called him two days later. He asked me to come straight in.
After an examination, he pulled a perplexed face and told me he wasn't sure, but would refer me to the nearby Whittington Hospital. Within three days, I was in front of a consultant, who pulled a similar face, and sent me for an ultrasound. A nurse there looked unhappy, and said they'd better do a biopsy. I would know the results in a week.
The days passed quickly and I felt surprisingly calm. But the night before, I finally decided I'd better tell Alvin. He was shocked and not a little cross I hadn't shared the news already. But I like to be in control of all the facts, and perhaps my reticence shows how difficult it is to talk about cancer, even when it is happening to you. Of course, I apologised, and we agreed I would go for the results and call him straightaway.
The next morning, when I got to the Whittington, my instinct that something was wrong was confirmed by the expression of the nurse who checked me in. I saw a flicker in her eyes that made me think "uh-oh".
In with my consultant, I was told that I did have a malignant lump, but that it was small and we had caught it early. My surgeon told me he would be operating on me as soon as possible, to remove the lump and a few lymph nodes to check the cancer hadn't spread. He was positive and told me not to worry, but I was in a daze.
My thoughts were all over the place. I had only one friend who had been through this before, so I didn't know what to expect. The next day, I went into work and told my manager and colleagues, and they were supportive and kind. No one could believe how calm I was. Even I was surprised I hadn't really cried at all.
For the next month, I had to prepare myself mentally for the operation, and pray that my surgeon wouldn't find anything else.
Just a few days before, I decided to tell more of my friends, and was surprised by quite a lot of the reactions. Some sent cards, chocolates and flowers. One told me about the importance of drinking healthy green smoothies - full of vitamins and antioxidants - and suggested going to yoga classes.
But others found the news harder to handle than I had. It seemed to cause shock and panic. I often had to calm people down, assuring them it would be OK, and saying, no, a lump wasn't a sign of imminent death. Some seemed to think that by vocalising my illness, I was somehow making it happen.
And then there were those who would come to see me, but be shocked at how well I looked. I burst out laughing when I realised they were almost disappointed to see me looking normal and happy.
They'd ask if I was putting on a brave face - and I'd say, no, I'm no different to normal. And then I had to put them at ease. I didn't want them scuttling off embarrassed. I wanted my friends around me.
Gradually, though, most saw how well I was handling it, and took their cue from me.
The operation, in the first week of July, was a success. Afterwards, the surgeon told me there was no sign of the cancer having spread. But he organised a four-week course of radiotherapy, just to make sure any rogue cells were destroyed.
This time, I took the initiative and drew up a timetable of my appointments, handing it to friends and asking them to fill in any slots when they could come with me. I knew I needed support, and I realised I had to make it clear that there was no need for awkwardness.
These cancer empathy cards would definitely have been useful. Friends and family often don't know what to say. And they don't know whether they will say a stupid thing until it comes out. So anything that helps them to feel comfortable, and which we can laugh at together, has to be good news.
There were times when I cried and was fearful, even though I preferred to do that in private. And the thought of how lucky I was to find the lump so early still sends shivers down my spine.
I am so grateful to have been clear at my six-monthly check-ups. At my appointment next week, I will have been clear for three years. I now volunteer for the charity Breast Cancer Care to help others cope with life after treatment.
The best advice I can give other patients is not to treat all of their friends and family the same. After diagnosis, we get treated as individuals, and we need to think of our loved ones the same way.
But persuading them to send us one of these clever empathy cards.
Cancer empathy cards are available from emilymcdowell.com
As told to Victoria Lambert.
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