It was an ordinary day when my phone buzzed, revealing a call from the school nurse. Instantly, anxiety churned in my stomach as I braced myself to hear which of my kids was unwell. My oldest had asthma, so that was always a plausible guess, but my youngest often complained of stomach issues, and my middle child had a penchant for late-night reading marathons. So, it could have been any of them. When I picked up, however, it was the school social worker on the line.
“I just wanted to check in on your daughter,” she said, and I felt the familiar tension rise within me.
Just two weeks into the school year, their father underwent his third surgery for brain cancer, resulting in nearly a month-long hospital stay. He experienced a stroke, swelling in his brain, and nerve damage, leaving him with limited use of his left side. The only times they saw him before his discharge, he was still bandaged and bruised, a fresh scar lined with stitches and staples. He put on a brave face for the kids, offering them a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, assuring them he was fine, even when he felt anything but.
Throughout that first week, I had numerous conversations with the children about their dad. I explained what he was going through at the hospital, shared his jokes, and talked through their fears and sadness. “It’s okay to feel sad,” I reassured them. “I feel it too. But Daddy’s doing well, and he’ll be home soon. We can lean on each other during this tough time.”
While I was deeply concerned for their father, my worries for the children loomed larger. Before school commenced, I had coordinated with the school social workers to create a plan. Yet, as Thanksgiving approached, life hardly felt “normal.” Their father was still unable to work or drive. We were surviving on takeout and meals prepared by kind friends and family. Our house resembled a war zone. He was still learning how to navigate simple tasks, using a cane and leg brace to assist him. On days when we had early hospital visits for MRIs and chemotherapy, a family friend helped the kids get ready for school since we were gone before dawn. They only saw us again at night, returning home with a heavy silence and no easy answers regarding their dad’s health.
“It’s okay,” I reassured them, “Daddy has been battling brain cancer since before you came along.” I didn’t mention that his diagnosis had prompted us to hurry into parenthood, wanting to create a family before time ran out on us. In less than three years, we welcomed three children, a decision made under the weight of uncertainty.
In the quiet corners of my mind, I always hoped that if their father could hold on until they were eight, they would have lasting memories of him. This surgery and its aftermath happened just two months after our youngest celebrated her seventh birthday.
Then came the social worker’s voice, bright but tinged with concern. My heart raced as I awaited the news. Had my daughter been wandering the school, overwhelmed and in tears? Had she acted out in class? Or was it about Daddy’s fall the previous day, forcing a friend’s mom to drive her home from basketball practice while I worried over him?
“She’s worried about you,” the social worker said gently. “She mentioned you’re having a tough time right now.”
The words hit me like a brick. “What? Me?”
“Yes, she said you seem overwhelmed.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Well, yes…”
“Are you alright, Mrs. Bennett?”
I wanted to beg her to drop the subject, but instead, I took a deep breath. “Things are challenging, but they’re improving.”
“I think you should talk to your kids about it. It’s okay to admit you’re struggling.”
“I know,” I murmured. “But I wish she didn’t have to worry…”
Acknowledging my own struggles felt selfish, especially when my husband was clearly the one in pain.
The social worker suggested ordering pizza for dinner, as if we weren’t already consuming it three times a week, and offered some kind words before hanging up. I barely heard her, my mind preoccupied with guilt.
To be fair to my daughter, I wasn’t okay at all. The weight of my responsibilities felt suffocating. Each night, I’d lay out a blanket in front of the TV and serve reheated leftovers, too exhausted to read a bedtime story or tackle the mountain of dishes. I was too busy documenting my husband’s treatment or emailing doctors to even think about lullabies.
No, Daddy wasn’t back to his usual self, but my inability to keep things running smoothly impacted our household more than his condition did. After twelve years of practice, I was a skilled caregiver and advocate, yet I had never learned to care for myself.
That’s the reality of caregiving, and it applies to parenting too. You tend to prioritize the needs of others until your own are buried beneath the pressing demands of daily life. You convince yourself that missing a shower is fine, that surviving on crusts of peanut butter sandwiches is acceptable, and that sleepless nights are just part of the deal.
But eventually, something has to give.
In the case of caring for someone who is terminally or chronically ill, there may be expectations for improvement, or perhaps there won’t be. Knowing when to take a break can come with a heavy cost. The responsibility of caregiving, taken on willingly, often carries an expiration date.
As for self-care, I had only just begun to grasp its importance. I used to tell my husband, my partner in all things, that I needed a night out or a moment to soak in the tub. My version of self-care was relying on him to help shoulder my burdens.
Now, for the first time, I was carrying that weight alone. He could no longer cook, drive, or take the kids to their activities. He couldn’t manage their check-ups or even handle the laundry. He needed constant supervision.
While my husband struggled, admitting my own difficulties felt like a betrayal. He was the one suffering the most, the provider and father who had always shouldered the load of both finances and household management. He may not have been the best at those tasks—often leaving the clean laundry crumpled or never figuring out the dishwasher’s intricacies—but he did them. He took out the trash, shoveled the driveway, and changed light bulbs.
“You’ll get there,” I would tell him after each setback. But while he worked on his recovery, the responsibilities fell to me.
Your daughter is worried about you, the social worker reminded me.
I’m learning to become a better caregiver, which must also include taking care of myself. My husband is on the mend, preparing to return to work and drive again. We’re adapting, finding tools that can help him manage tasks with one hand. We’re discovering clothes that accommodate his needs, shoes that stabilize his ankle, and strategies for situations like deciding between carrying an umbrella or a cane on a rainy day. We’re figuring it out.
I’m figuring it out.
I want the kids to stop worrying about their dad, but I also need to alleviate their concerns for me. I’m decluttering our home, simplifying meals, and involving the kids in the process. They’re old enough to help sort through their belongings, pack their lunches, and manage the dishwasher and the garbage.
“I wish things would go back to normal,” my ten-year-old lamented one day, and I squeezed her hand, sighing.
“We just have to hold on,” I replied. “Normal will find us again.”
This article was originally published on December 11, 2019. For more insights on similar topics, check out this engaging post on home insemination. If you’re seeking expert advice on pregnancy, visit Cleveland Clinic’s IVF and Fertility Preservation podcast. And for authoritative resources on home insemination, explore Make A Mom’s impregnator kit.
Summary: In the face of her husband’s recurring battle with brain cancer, a mother navigates the emotional and practical challenges of caregiving while trying to maintain stability for her children. As she learns to prioritize self-care and involve her kids in household responsibilities, she strives to find a new normal amidst the turmoil.
Keyphrase: My Husband’s Brain Cancer
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