Telling My Children I Have Cancer
I only cared about three things after my diagnosis. I brought them up to every nurse, doctor, and specialist I met:
What is my recommended treatment plan?
My sister’s wedding is in less than a month. Will I be able to go?
How do I tell my children that I have cancer?
My children know that my job - the one I consider most sacred and paramount - is to keep them safe. Nurture and bear witness, celebrate and honor, make them snacks 86 times a day, love with abandon, shield but don’t shelter. I couldn’t protect them from this. And I didn’t want to hide it from them either.
I had decided early on that I wouldn’t tell them until I knew what treatment I was pursuing. And I wouldn’t tell anyone else until my children knew. That felt important. A heartful order of operations.
We took this picture the day after my biopsy. It’s one of my favorites. Not because it’s perfect, but because it was a moment of joy. A reminder of the beauty and love we have at our fingertips, if we only choose to see it.
There were 7 days between my second opinion appointment and the start of chemo. In between was my 6-year-old daughter’s birthday party and birthday. My girls’ dance recital, at which I had volunteered to help backstage, was the day after my first infusion. This didn’t leave much time to prepare (which is my jam!) or deliver the news.
I looked everywhere for suggestions about how to tell them. Everything I found suggested using “age appropriate language.” Well, what the fuck is that, exactly? My kids were 7, 5, and 2 when I was diagnosed. I wanted a script. I wanted talking points. I wanted to use words that other mothers had already successfully used to tell their children. I wanted to be truthful and not overthink things (overthinking is also my jam). What if they asked me a question I didn’t have an answer to. What if they asked me if I would die. I wouldn't know what to tell them and I was afraid of the answer myself.
Here’s what I landed on. It isn’t perfect, but it worked for us:
Mommy has a boo-boo on the inside. The boo-boo is called cancer. I am going to take some really, really, really strong medicine that is going to do some crazy things. It’s so strong that it’s going to make my hair fall out! And it’s going to make me really tired sometimes, too. But when my hair falls out and when I’m tired that means that the medicine is working.
It went as well as it possibly could have. Leo, my 2-year-old, had no idea what was going on and was unfazed. Natalie, who had just turned 6, was really scared about my hair falling out. Amelia, my oldest, was worried that I wouldn’t be able to come to her dance recital or help out backstage. (That wasn’t actually what she was most concerned about, but for her it was a real-life, near-term representation of how life might be different. And she was rightfully scared.) The next morning I wrote to each of their teachers so that they’d be prepared if the girls brought it up. (The letter is available here for anyone to use as a template.)
It’s been really helpful to have a simple vocabulary to use within our family. The kids know exactly how many times I’m getting ‘medicine.’ They know to be gentle and patient with me after each ‘doctor’s appointment.’ They’ve gotten used to me being bald (though Leo regularly tells me, “I no like your head, Mommy!” and Natalie is counting the days until my hair grows back). They are far, far more resilient than I gave them credit for.
