There I am, curled up in the corner of the couch, trying to project an air of calmness, even though my knees are jabbing into the fabric beneath my elbows. I’m attempting to keep my voice light yet authoritative, striving to hold the attention of three little ones without sounding angry or terrified. I know I need to keep my composure as we tackle this tough conversation.
I always knew this moment would arrive—the day I’d have to explain to my kids that their dad is going to have brain surgery due to an illness. It’s a conversation that’s weighed heavily on my heart, filled with questions, tears, and an overwhelming sense of strangeness.
As I sit there, I explain to my daughters, all under six, that their father is sick, but he’s going to get better. I try to reassure them: Yes, it’s going to hurt for a bit. Yes, there will be stitches, just above a scar they are familiar with. And yes, they can draw him as many pictures as they want to brighten his spirits.
Then, in the midst of my heavy explanation, our youngest suddenly remembers my earlier mention of Weight Watchers and asks if Daddy will earn points for being in the hospital. The only acceptable answer? “Yes.”
They want to know when the surgery will be. Daddy chimes in, saying it will happen after Mommy’s birthday. I can’t help but wonder if the surgeon will allow that timeline, but I assure them it’s okay if it’s on the same day.
The kids, despite their confusion, can see that we’re trying to be brave for them, and they climb onto Daddy’s lap, expressing their desire for him to get better quickly. He promises them he will.
I fidget with my cuticles, angled awkwardly on the couch. In an attempt to lighten the mood, I announce that since Daddy can’t go back to work today, we can visit the playground and enjoy their favorite restaurant afterward.
At dinner, one of the twins spots a flyer with a pink ribbon and asks, “Daddy, does this mean she has cancer like you?” He manages a smile, acknowledging her observation without diving into the deeper implications of his condition. I can feel the weight of the moment, wishing we could simply enjoy our meal without the heavy undertones.
As bedtime approaches, the two-year-old asks, “Is Daddy sick?” in a tone that seems almost innocent. Yes, I confirm. Daddy has a tumor in his brain, and he will be in the hospital for a while, but we will visit him and bring along lots of drawings.
On our drive home from ballet, the questions come flooding back. “Is Daddy getting his stitches now?” “No, sweetie. He will get them after the surgery.” “Why does he need surgery?” I explain, in as gentle a manner as I can muster, that it’s to remove a small tumor from his brain. Each time I say those words, it feels like I’m swallowing something bitter.
The girls need stability, routine—something solid to cling to. I mentally rehearse the route from ballet to the pharmacy, where I fill prescriptions for anti-seizure and anti-anxiety medications, silently wishing for the days when these trips were just a part of our normal errands.
While the girls eagerly ask Daddy about his stitches, he tells them it might be staples instead. The memories flood back—moments spent cleaning blood from between metal ridges in the days after he returned from the hospital. I wonder how the kids will react to the scars and the changes in their father when he comes home.
I’m worn out but strangely resolute. I start looking into job opportunities to ease the financial burden on him, focusing on what’s necessary rather than getting caught up in my own feelings. As I sort through a binder of his medical records, I realize how much I’ve been preparing for this moment over the years.
As we navigate this uncertain terrain, I hear Daddy telling our girls, “Our bodies are amazing.” He reassures them that his skin will heal. It’s incredible how even in tough times, he finds ways to teach them valuable lessons.
Later, as I stand in the shower, the water cascading over me, I feel the tension in my chest. There are so many messages waiting for responses—people telling me how strong I am and that they’re praying for us. I wonder if there’s a contradiction in that notion.
But through it all, I remind myself: This is our reality now. Daddy has brain cancer, and while it’s part of our routine, I strive to maintain a sense of normalcy. I repeat to myself that he’s going to be just fine.
Despite the challenges, we’re facing this together as a family.
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In times like these, it can feel overwhelming, but we navigate the challenges together, drawing strength from one another.