Of all the cruel blows cancer offers, the worst one is having to tell your child.
The thought of this glass wall of safety, of the belief in the world shattering yet again – it fills me with grief.
I have felt that childhood has its own rights: safety, security, love, reasonable comforts, a belief in the ongoing goodwill and buoyancy of the world. I have, like mothers do, held these around my middle school daughter like blankets to prevent a chill, dropping one or two occasionally but quickly picking them back up again. And her father, too, a man I have grown to love even more, who is bewildered by what is happening but quick to rally: he continues to nail back the boards of this falling house, continues to prop up the sagging fences.
The time had come to tell our daughter about this recurrence.
For a month we talked about how to do this. For this time, this occurrence, we wanted to be much more intentional. We wanted to monitor how much information she received, and we wanted clarity and simplicity. We also wanted – and here is the hardest part – to impart hope, even when to summon it was an act that did not feel fully true.
Here is what we did:
1. We waited. We let ourselves first, in private, process and react and talk. In the early morning hours, we wept together. We let ourselves grieve first.
2. We met with our hospital’s oncology social worker, who walked us through the process of telling her and even role-played potentially difficult questions. She also gave us two resources to start with, which I will offer links to here. I’m in the SF Bay Area, but these are available in other areas, too:
- Camp Kesem – A FREE, wonderful camp for kids of all ages to meet, have fun with, and talk about their experiences of having a parent with cancer. We had heard about them and participated in their events before. If I could holler on every rooftop about this organization, I would, and if you ever need a charity to donate to, may this be the one. Our daughter has loved every single counselor she’s met in her experiences with Camp Kesem, and I thank God they exist.
- Circle of Care – While I have only interacted via email and phone with the staff here, they have been incredibly supportive and resourceful.
3. We planned the timing of it. Our daughter was on an outdoor field trip with her school, so we had about a week to plan. This was possibly the most important part. We wanted to make sure that it was on a Friday, so that she had the weekend to stay home, go out, talk, or have any and all feelings that came up.
4. Finally, we became clear about what we would say: That this was a recurrence, that I was in treatment for it, that we would take it one step at a time. That I was currently still healthy and able to do all the usual things, and that she had permission to ask absolutely anything. Also, that the doctors were doing everything they could to help.
5. Equally important: we were clear about what we wouldn’t say. We would not talk about the odds of this treatment working (30-40%). We would not talk about “what ifs” unless she specifically asked, and even then frame it with caution and hope. I hope that does not come across as deceptive, we did not mean it so. There is some small lantern that parents must carry for their child, isn’t there? It’s the one that give the strength to keep going on and gives your child’s legs muscle. It is hope, it is love – and though I am not often Biblical – it is faith.
And so, holding hands across this bridge, we told her.
...
And it was pretty anticlimactic. She briefly furrowed her brow. She paused, bit into her burger. She asked, “How big is it?” then asked where it was. When I lifted my shirt to show her, she gave the middle finger, placed it over the tumor and said, “Eff* you, cancer.”
Then: “Can I go on the computer now?”
I love her.**
(*She actually said “eff.” It was dinner, and she wanted to be respectful.)
(** I will also love her when her reactions challenge us. We know there will be more to come. )
(She also has no idea I'm writing this blog.)
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