I find myself nestled in the corner of the sofa, striving to appear relaxed, though my posture betrays me. My knees press into the fabric as I attempt to keep my demeanor light yet authoritative, trying to engage three energetic preschoolers without revealing any signs of fear or distress.
I anticipated this moment. I knew there would come a day when I’d have to articulate the complexities of a health crisis to my daughters, all under the age of six. I expected questions, tears, and a challenging conversation. Yet, the reality is far more surreal than I had envisioned.
Here I am, explaining to my girls that their father will undergo brain surgery. Yes, he’s unwell, but he will get better. Yes, it will hurt, but only for a short time. Yes, there will be stitches, right over the scar that has become a part of his identity in their eyes. And yes, they can create as many drawings for him as they desire.
Then, the youngest pipes up, recalling my previous explanation of Weight Watchers and asking if Daddy will earn points for his hospital visit. The only answer that satisfies her is a cheerful “Yes.”
When they inquire about the timing of the surgery, Daddy tells them it will happen after my birthday. I can’t help but wonder if the surgeon will permit such a wait, but I assure them that it’s perfectly fine if the two events coincide.
The children may not fully grasp the situation, yet they sense our attempts to project bravery. They clamber onto Daddy’s lap, expressing their desire for him to recover quickly, and he reassures them he will.
I find myself nervously picking at my cuticles, still angled into the couch’s corner. Trying to maintain composure, I suggest a trip to the playground since Daddy won’t be working today. We can even indulge in their favorite restaurant afterward.
At dinner, one of the twins reads a flyer adorned with a pink ribbon. “She has cancer, Daddy. Is that like you?” He manages a smile, acknowledging her observation without delving into the discomfort it brings. His voice is soft enough that the woman sitting nearby remains oblivious. I excuse myself to the salad bar, inwardly grateful that the scar on his head is hidden from her view.
As bedtime approaches, the 2-year-old asks, “Is Daddy sick?”—a question as routine as asking if I’m dressed. Yes, he has a tumor in his brain, and after surgery, he will stay in the hospital for a while. We will visit him and bring lots of drawings.
After ballet class, the questions return. “Is Daddy getting stitches now?” “No, sweetheart. He’ll get those after his surgery.” “Why is he having surgery?” “To remove a small tumor from his brain.” Each time I utter those words, I feel a bitter tang in my throat, despite my steady tone.
The kids need reassurance, stability, and routine. They cling to familiarity, and I practice the route from ballet to the pharmacy repeatedly. I fill his prescriptions for anti-seizure and anti-anxiety medications, suppressing my thoughts as the pharmacist smiles at me.
I don’t share with the pharmacist that seven years ago, I made a different pharmacist cry for repeatedly mishandling my husband’s medication. The girls are back to asking about Daddy’s stitches, and he tells them he might have staples instead. The memories of his past surgeries flood my mind.
While he explains what staples are, I recall washing blood from metal ridges after he returned home from the hospital. The idea of how the kids will react to the scabby mess when I remove his dressings lingers in my thoughts. I ponder how he will manage to carry them to bed or play with them during his recovery. Will he need a stool in the shower or rely on the cane that has been gathering dust?
I’m too spent to process it all, yet I don’t feel fear. Instead, I feel a sense of resignation and determination, knowing my husband is consumed by thoughts of our family finances. I quietly seek out a job that could alleviate some of his burdens while managing a flurry of calls and emails. My usual concerns fade as I focus solely on what needs to be done.
As I sort through a binder of my husband’s medical records, I create new pages for notes, discarding business cards of specialists we no longer need. All the while, my 2-year-old hunts for her frog blankie, oblivious to my preoccupations. I gently remind her that outside shoes shouldn’t be worn indoors, even as she refuses to take them off.
One of the twins is busy taping pictures to the door for Daddy to see when he comes home. I contemplate whether he should consider taking an early disability leave, opting to rest rather than stress about work and cancer in the days leading up to his surgery. I’m relieved when he agrees.
From the other room, I hear him talking to the girls. “Our bodies are incredible,” he tells them, explaining how his skin will heal. He mentions that some surgeons might be women, emphasizing that girls can do important jobs just as boys can. Each moment becomes a teaching opportunity.
As I stand in the shower, the water splashes against my neck, a mix of warmth and coolness that fails to provide the catharsis I crave. I wash my hair and sit on the bed as the twins help me choose an outfit. My hip locks up, causing me to stumble in the heels they’ve selected.
A deluge of 122 messages awaits my response, most offering words of strength and prayers. I wonder if such sentiments are contradictory and close my inbox. There’s a tightness in my chest that flirts with panic, yet I refuse to succumb. I’ve been prepared for this moment for years—since the first time I uttered, “I’m his fiancée,” in the emergency room, seeing him disheveled and in pain.
I grapple with how to cope with this preparedness. Cancer and brain surgery come with chaos and shock, but I strive to maintain calmness in the eye of the storm. I worry that my collected demeanor may come off as insincere, yet I remain unshaken.
Our children are unfazed. Tears have only fallen from my husband’s eyes in moments of frustration, and mine have been shed in solitude while scrolling through well-meaning messages. My tears are secret, fleeting. There’s nothing to fear, I remind myself. There’s no use dwelling on what might happen next.
Daddy has brain cancer—this is our new normal. The same email I sent to my family announcing the end of his last chemotherapy round was the same one I used to share my first pregnancy news. The intertwining of parenthood and glioblastoma is not novel; it’s merely shifting in reverse.
“Daddy has brain cancer,” I repeat, hoping to convince myself and my children when I say, “He’s going to be just fine.”
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In summary, navigating life when a parent has cancer is a delicate balance of fostering reassurance for children while managing the complexities of adult emotions and responsibilities. The journey is filled with challenges, but it also presents opportunities for growth and connection.
Keyphrase: coping with a parent’s cancer
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