I find myself tucked into the corner of the couch, attempting to project an air of calm while my knees press into the fabric beneath me. My voice is light but firm as I strive to capture the attention of three young children without revealing any fear or anxiety. Today, I must deliver news that is both daunting and surreal.
The moment has arrived when I need to explain to my daughters, all under the age of six, that their father is about to undergo brain surgery. He’s unwell, but he will recover. Yes, it’s going to hurt, but only for a short while. Yes, there will be stitches—a stark reminder for them of his condition. Yes, they can create as many drawings as they want to cheer him up.
Suddenly, we’re diverted by a question about points. The youngest recalls my explanation of a points system and wants to know if Daddy will earn points for being in the hospital. The only acceptable answer is a resounding “Yes.”
As they inquire when the surgery will take place, Daddy responds that it will happen after Mommy’s birthday. I can’t help but wonder if his surgeon will allow such a delay. I reassure the girls that it’s perfectly fine if the dates coincide.
The kids might not fully grasp the gravity of the situation, yet they sense our attempts to remain strong for them. They hop onto their father’s lap, expressing their desire for him to get better quickly. He assures them he will.
I continue to fidget, my body angled awkwardly on the couch as I try to maintain composure. I suggest a trip to the playground and their favorite restaurant since Daddy isn’t working today.
During dinner, one of the twins spots a flyer adorned with a pink ribbon. “It says she has cancer, Daddy. Is that like you?” His response is a quiet affirmation. I can see the weight of his illness reflected in the way others look at him—how they size me up as well.
Preparing for bedtime, the 2-year-old asks, “Is Daddy sick?” Yes, I tell her, he has a tumor in his brain and will require surgery, but we will visit him and create many pictures to lift his spirits.
While driving home from ballet class, the questions continue. “Is Daddy getting his stitches now?” “No, sweetie. He’ll get stitches after his surgery.” “Why is he having surgery?” “To remove a little tumor from his brain.” Each time I utter those words, it’s like swallowing vinegar—sharp and unsettling.
The children crave certainty and routine, a foundation to lean on amid the chaos. I mentally rehearse the route from ballet to the pharmacy, where I pick up his prescriptions for anti-seizure and anti-anxiety medications. I suppress my thoughts as I engage with the pharmacist, recalling how I once made another pharmacist cry over repeated medication errors.
As Daddy answers the girls’ questions about stitches, he mentions he might have staples instead. The memories of his previous surgeries are fresh in my mind, and I recall cleaning blood from the metal ridges of his previous staples after he returned home. I wonder how the kids will react to the scabs I’ll have to reveal post-surgery.
I’m too exhausted to process everything, but I don’t feel fear. Instead, I feel a sense of determination. I’ve begun exploring job opportunities to alleviate some of the financial stress on my husband. With a stack of MRI referrals in front of me, I’m unconsciously organizing his medical records while keeping an eye on my daughter hunting for her favorite frog blankie.
As I listen to Daddy engage with the girls, I’m reminded of the importance of these moments. He’s teaching them about resilience, explaining how our bodies can heal. Each day is a lesson in strength.
In the shower, I lean against the wall, feeling a tightness in my chest. There are countless messages in my inbox praising my strength, and I wonder if I’m deserving of such accolades. I’ve been preparing for this moment for years—ever since I stood in the ER, watching my fiancé’s face, paralyzed and broken.
Our children remain unaware of the depth of our situation, their innocence a comfort. I repeat to myself, “Daddy has brain cancer.” It’s become our new normal, a constant in our lives. Yet, I cling to the hope that he will be okay.
The intertwining of parenthood and cancer is not a new story for our family; it simply seems to be unfolding in reverse. I remind myself, over and over, “He’s going to be just fine.”
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Summary:
Navigating life when a parent has cancer can be daunting for families, particularly young children. This article recounts a mother’s experience explaining her husband’s brain surgery to their daughters, emphasizing the importance of maintaining a sense of normalcy and routine. Through candid reflections, the piece highlights the challenges of balancing fear with the need to reassure children, while also managing one’s own emotions and responsibilities. Ultimately, it is a story of resilience and hope amidst the overwhelming nature of a cancer diagnosis.
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