I’m Kinda Worried

Post #2 in Cancer Culture

“I’m kinda worried.”

My 11-year-old son is lying in bed as I’m tucking him in. He’s lifted one of his pillows up to cover his eyes – as he tells me this. Maybe he doesn’t want me to see his eyes or maybe he doesn’t want to see mine. I can’t be sure which.

My breath catches in my throat and I bustle around his room – picking up some books and re-shelving them; picking up an errant sock and tossing it into his dirty clothes bin.

I believe there are many things an 11-year-old boy can and should be worried about: his report card, for instance. Maybe a bully at school.

But a global pandemic ravaging the world as he knows it? And his mother being diagnosed with cancer? No. Neither of those. That’s just not fair.

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He is laying on his back, freshly washed hair fanning on his pillow – now looking up at me expectantly; pillow cast aside. But I don’t trust my voice just yet. And I can’t do that to him the moment before I expect him to close his eyes and drift off to sleep.

I move to his aquarium and tap in three pellets of food for his frog. FYI – this creature looks like a floating albino pickle.

I try not to lie to my kids. Although I have lied to them before. I told them there is a Santa Claus, an Easter Bunny and a Tooth Fairy. One time, I also I told them there’s a headless clown living in our basement who will come upstairs on my word to check on them if they give me a hassle at bedtime. I’m pretty sure they knew I was kidding.

But I can’t lie to them about this. Because something is wrong – seriously wrong and there’s just no hiding that. And if I did lie – then they would think the worst – and probably never trust me again.

So on the day I received the most devastating news of my life – that I have cancer – both my husband and I knew that somehow, in some way we would have to tell our kids.

How could I say these words to them and be truthful yet not scare them? There had to be some sort of magical combination and I was intent on finding it. So I rattled off ideas in my head while we ate dinner and went for a walk – and pretended that everything was okay. That everything was normal.

Then we called them into the family room and I chose my words carefully.

“We knew there was a growth in my face. We knew it was bad and we knew it had to be removed. Well, now we know it’s cancer. It still has to be removed. And now we know the surgery may be a bit longer and more invasive. And now we know that my recovery may take a bit longer. Then I’ll have some radiation. And after that – let’s hope that’s that.”

Millie is crying. She’s the one I’m least worried about. Even though she’s the one who can easily be consumed by anxiety – she’s also the one who wears her heart on her sleeve. When it comes to her emotions and feelings, she is always open and transparent.

Adelaide is silent – her fear will come out later in short-tempered bursts of anger – as most of her emotions eventually do.

And Walter – perched on the arm of the couch – quiet and pale. Blinking furiously to hold back his fear.

“Listen – this isn’t a secret, okay? It’s not private. All of our family knows and so will all of our friends. You can talk to your friends too. You may need their support – and you don’t have to worry about offending me or upsetting me – because you won’t.”

I take a deep breath and am so thankful that I said what I needed to say. And did so without crying. My tears would have been so frightening to them. I’m generally not much of  a crier – although Hachi pushed me over the edge. If you can watch that movie without shedding a tear, then you are clearly a robot.

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Later that evening, I receive emails from parents of their friends. My girls have already reached out. Reaching out for the support of friends – hoping it will cover them like a warm blanket. And I am so grateful.

How is this devastating diagnosis damaging my kids? What irreparable harm is it causing them by bringing a grown-up edge of fear to their already fraught and fragile existence during these times of hunkering down and staying home?

How I wish I could have surgery and then recover. Then undergo radiation and recover. All without them ever having to know about any of it. How I wish I could shield and protect them from this frightening part of life.

So many kids have it worse than mine – so many kids are suffering. Kids are fighting their own battles with disease and injury. And if asked, I’m certain that any one of these kids’ parents would change places with me in a heartbeat; in one friggin’ millisecond of a heartbeat. From this perspective, my current reality which I feel is unfair and devastating and horrible – is the one another person would gladly choose for themselves. Another parent who I don’t know and will never meet – would hear about my situation and gladly accept it as their own if they could make that switch.

I think about that for just one second and I could cry forever.

My son is still lying in bed, looking at me quietly and patiently, waiting. He’s kinda worried and he’s waiting for my response. Some sort of answer which will soothe him and comfort him and let him know that everything is fine, everything will be fine.

I put the frog food away – up high in his closet or else our dog will get to it and eat it. And then I sit down on the edge of his bed and touch his face, smooth down his hair – he still lets me do that sometimes.

“Me too, buddy.” I kiss him on his sweet little forehead. “But not too much.”

On Monday April 26, 2021, my life changed forever when I heard the words: “You have cancer.” This blog post is the second in a series entitled: Cancer Culture and revolves around my personal experience surrounding this devastating diagnosis.

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