How do you tell your kids you have cancer?
I think the worst part of the waiting was the fear. As I previously discussed, I wasn’t really afraid for myself. Dealing with cancer is never going to be a picnic, no matter what kinds of decisions I make for my treatment. I spent some time making peace with what was happening, though, and I was in an okay place for ME.
The fear that remained was the fear of having to tell these three sweet young men that their mom has cancer.
How could I break their hearts like that?
I had some other fears around navigating some potential unconventional treatment options with my very conventional spouse, but for the most part, I felt confident that we could navigate all of that in a productive way eventually.
Anytime I talked with anyone about what was happening and the subject of telling the kids came up, I choked up. Tears came. How do you tell your kids you have cancer? How do you break your babies’ hearts?
I remember how scared I used to be, especially when I was around Andrew’s age, about losing one or both of my parents. And my parents never dealt with anything like this when I was young. At least not to my knowledge, since things like mental health and illness were not as commonly talked about back then. I don’t think they have the same fears I did, but what do I know? I’m just their mom.
I didn’t know what kind of picture they had in their heads when it came to cancer. Though I did know that some of their friends had also been dealing with family members who had diagnoses of their own.
I wanted to tell the kids after our first consultation with the oncologist, hoping she would have some more information and some answers for us, even though in the back of my mind, I knew that more testing would probably be necessary first.
Consultation
At that initial consultation on February 9th, the oncologist talked about testing and treatment. She said that treatment would depend on the stage, but would involve at least some kind of chemotherapy and possibly radiation as well. She ordered blood work and a PET scan to determine type and staging.
Since we still didn’t know anything more, we put off telling the kids. I was really emotional all weekend. I sobbed myself to sleep on Saturday night, the one thought in my head being, “I don’t want cancer.”
Sunday, I got my period and an opportunity to appreciate my body and its beautiful design.
No, really. I appreciated how my hormones had allowed me to move so much emotion through and out. I was truly grateful. And I knew that the following weekend, after the scan and the next consultation, would have me far less emotional when we would finally tell the boys what was happening, and that was a good thing.
Tests
I didn’t like having to do a PET scan. I asked all my knowledgeable friends about it, and for the most part, I was assured that the scan would be fine. I tried not to think about the radiation or the radioactive injection I would receive (and we won’t talk about what it actually did do to my digestive system). I had another appointment with my therapist on the same day as the scan, so I was able to work through a lot of my fears about it with her right before going in.
The scan itself was fine. It was a nice day and everything went smoothly. I tried to meditate, relax, I think I even dozed off as I laid in the large machine.
That was Valentine’s Day.
Results
Friday, February 16th, we had another chat with the oncologist, the nurse navigator and eventually, the hospital social worker. The oncologist explained that there were four spots of lymph nodes lit up on the scan, all above the diaphragm, which put me at a stage 2. She said something about it being unfavorable because there were that many. She explained the chemotherapy treatment in depth, offering the alphabet soup of ABVD for a minimum of about 8 months, depending on the response. Told me I would definitely lose my hair. She talked about the next step being a port installation on my body, which would be where the drugs would go because in an IV situation, the risk of damage to my skin would be too great.
I asked my questions.
I asked them what they would do for me if I chose not to move forward with chemotherapy. She said she would want to see me back in 3 months for more blood work and another scan. I took a breath.
I asked—my voice braking— “Do you have any resources to help us talk to our kids?”
That was when they sent in the social worker, who had so many resources to help us talk to the kids. They provided backpacks with some information and art supplies for emotional processing. Two of the three got Barnes & Noble gift cards, even. The third one, for our youngest, had a stuffed dinosaur and an actual book about feelings.
I took another breath.
We left, and James and I drove to Barnes & Noble to get a third gift card so they all would have one. As we pulled into the parking spot, we had our conversation.
I told him that I wasn’t ready to commit to chemotherapy. I wanted to wait and see what else I could do. I didn’t like the fact that those drugs are literally poison. It didn’t feel like my best opportunity to heal was with western medicine’s chemistry just yet.
I explained that I need to be the one who feels confident about any decision.
I explained that I’m not ruling out chemo forever, but definitely for now.
I explained that I needed his support.
He understood, I think. And he expressed that if the shoe were on the other foot, his choice would be both natural support and chemotherapy. He was relieved that I wasn’t ruling it out and willing to support me with nutrition or whatever weird stuff I wanted to try as long as it wouldn’t hurt me or bankrupt us.
I took another breath.
Making that decision—to wait and explore my options—felt right. I felt relieved.
We went into Barnes & Noble and bought a gift card… and The Cancer Fighting Kitchen cookbook, which is what my husband needed for himself, telling me, “I’m going to make you so healthy.”
Breaking the news
The next day, Saturday afternoon, we told the boys what was going on.
I’d been making smoothies and eating differently for a couple of weeks already. Michael asked why I was eating such weird stuff, and in answer, we gathered the boys into the living room, where I told them about how they found some cancer when they did that test on my neck a few weeks ago. I told them it was a cancer called Hodgkins Lymphoma, explained a little bit about the lymphatic system and where the cancer was found in my body. I told them that not much was going to change right away, but that they would be seeing me do some “weird” things or eating differently than usual. We told them that they could talk to anyone they wanted about it, and that if someone asked them a question they didn’t know the answer to, to say this: “That sounds like a good question for my mom.”
Michael got silent. He stared into the distance and didn’t move.
Andrew and Daniel were fine. They didn’t have many questions, and they were excited to dig through their backpacks full of stuff. They played with clay.
Michael went to his room and slammed the door.
After awhile, I went in and sat with him.
He still didn’t say anything.
After another while, he went downstairs to punch the heavy bag with his bare knuckles.
James helped him clean and bandage them after. They cleaned and disinfected the bag.
He came out and played Fortnite with his brothers online with their cousin.
He was okay.
We were all okay.
I could breathe.
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