Learning to Cope When a Parent is Diagnosed with Cancer

home insemination Kit

I find myself curled up in the corner of the couch, trying to appear relaxed, even as my knees dig into the fabric beneath my elbows. I take a deep breath, striving to keep my tone light yet authoritative, as I attempt to explain a heavy truth to my three little ones. I want to command their attention without sounding frightened or panicked, even though my heart is racing.

I knew this moment would arrive. I knew I’d have to sit down and rearrange the same words I’ve said countless times into a way they could understand. I understood there would be questions and emotions, and I steeled myself for the challenge. But the reality is far more surreal than I anticipated.

Here I am, trying to tell my daughters—each under the age of 6—that their dad is about to undergo brain surgery. He’s unwell, but he will recover. Yes, it will hurt, but only for a short time. Yes, he’ll have stitches right over the scar that has become just a normal part of his existence to them. And yes, they can draw as many pictures as they want to cheer him up.

Then, a little distraction comes up. The youngest pipes up, recalling my talk about Weight Watchers, and asks if Daddy will get lots of points for being in the hospital. Only a “Yes” will satisfy her.

They ask when the surgery is scheduled. Daddy says it’ll be after Mommy’s birthday. I wonder if his doctor will allow that but say I wouldn’t mind if they fall on the same day. It’s true. The kids don’t fully grasp the situation but sense our attempts to stay strong for them. They climb onto Daddy’s lap, expressing their wishes for him to get better quickly. He assures them that he will.

I’m fidgeting with my cuticles, positioning myself in the couch corner, trying to project calmness. I smile and suggest that since Daddy won’t be going to work today, we could head to a playground and maybe their favorite restaurant afterward.

During dinner, one of the twins reads a flyer with a pink ribbon. “It says she has cancer, Daddy. Is that like you?” He looks at the page and tries to smile, acknowledging her observation. “Yes, like me.” He doesn’t elaborate on how people react when he shares this news, nor how they look at me. His voice is soft enough that the woman seated nearby doesn’t overhear. As I head to the salad bar, I focus on the radio, thankful that the scar on his head is out of view.

When we’re getting ready for bed, my 2-year-old asks, “Is Daddy sick?”—the same way she might inquire if I’m wearing clothes. Yes, he has a tumor in his brain. Yes, he will have surgery and be in the hospital for a while, and we’ll visit him and create lots of pictures to bring along.

On the drive home from ballet class, she asks, “Is Daddy getting his stitches now?” “No, sweetheart. He’ll get them after the surgery.” “Why does he need surgery?” “To remove a small tumor from his brain.” Each time I say those words, despite my steady tone, it feels like I’ve swallowed vinegar.

The children need certainty and routine. They require something solid to cling to. I practice the route from ballet to the pharmacy countless times, filling prescriptions for anti-seizure and anti-anxiety meds, all while holding back my emotions when the pharmacist smiles at me. I don’t share that seven years ago, a different pharmacist had made me cry due to repeated medication errors.

The twins ask Daddy about his stitches again. He tells them he might have staples instead, returning to memories of the past. I remember washing blood from between the metal ridges after he came home from the hospital. I wonder how the kids will react to the scabs I’ll reveal when I remove the dressings. How will they handle a Daddy who can’t carry them or roll on the floor with them for weeks after he returns?

I’m too drained and numb to know how to feel. But I don’t feel scared. I feel resolved and determined. I start looking into getting a job to ease the financial burden on him. I take phone calls and write emails, pushing aside my own feelings of discomfort and focusing on what needs to be done.

Sitting in front of my computer, I notice I’m tidying up my husband’s medical records, adding new note pages and removing business cards for doctors we no longer see. Meanwhile, my youngest is hunting for her frog blankie, wearing only a pull-up and Frozen sneakers. I remind her that outside shoes belong outside, but I’m too preoccupied to care that she hasn’t taken them off.

One of the twins is taping pictures to the door for Daddy to see when he gets home. I think he should consider taking disability leave instead of trying to juggle work with his cancer diagnosis. I’m relieved when he agrees.

In another room, I listen to him talk to the girls about how amazing our bodies are—that his skin will heal. He tells them that the surgeons might be women, and that females can do all kinds of important jobs. He’s turning every moment into a teachable one.

As I stand under the shower, letting the hot water hit my neck, I feel an urge to cry but can’t pinpoint why. I wash my hair, then sit on the bed while the twins pick out my outfit. There are 122 messages waiting for responses, most with words of encouragement. I wonder if their sentiments are contradictory and close my inbox.

A tightness in my chest simmers but doesn’t lead to panic. I’m ready. I’ve been ready for seven years, nine months, and 28 days. I’ve prepared for this since the first time I stood in the ER, witnessing my husband’s face paralyzed. I don’t know how to manage this feeling of preparedness, the calm amidst the storm. I feel like a fraud when I repeat, “He’s going to be just fine.”

Our children are calm. No tears have fallen except for a few from my husband after the news, a couple that watered the twins’ eyes when we broke the news. My tears are hidden, secretive. I remind myself there’s nothing to fear or be concerned about. Daddy has brain cancer. It’s become our new normal. The same email I sent to our family after his last round of chemo was the one announcing my first pregnancy. The intertwining of parenthood and glioblastoma is familiar; it’s just flipped in reverse.

Daddy has brain cancer, I keep telling myself. And I know we’re all left wondering if they can trust me when I say, “He’s going to be just fine.”

For more insights on navigating the complexities of family life during difficult times, check out this related blog post on home insemination. It’s an excellent resource for those embarking on their own journey through parenthood, and for further information, visit Make a Mom, a trusted authority on this topic. Additionally, you can find valuable information on pregnancy at the CDC.

Summary

This piece reflects on the challenges and emotions faced by a mother explaining her husband’s cancer diagnosis to their young children. It captures the struggle to maintain a sense of normalcy amidst uncertainty, the importance of routine for the children, and the complexities of navigating family dynamics during a health crisis. The narrative emphasizes resilience while acknowledging the underlying fears and pressures.