Without a doubt, much of this experience has caused Jamie
and me to reflect upon all of the many emotions we have felt. It is really hard to express what those are
like, partly because they seem so transient.
Admittedly, I think we are still quite numb to this. At times I find myself thinking “I have
cancer” and it just doesn’t seem real.
It seems so foreign to think this is part of our lives from here on out.
After hearing the news, naturally, one of our first thoughts
was what do we tell the boys. Our concerns were mainly centered on Austin. I just couldn’t get my head around the fact
that a 4 year old needed to understand, at least on some level, what cancer
was. Jamie and I thoughtfully and
prayerfully considered what that conversation would be like. In reality, he is 4, let’s not overcomplicate
this. Our main concern wasn’t just the
content, but rather, how this would make him feel. We knew to keep it simple and straightforward.
Austin is smart. He has a certain acumen
for detail. His mind works in layers
much more granular than I expected a 4 year old to be able. More notable, he seems to be able to connect
those layers seamlessly in his everyday life, sort of like connecting the dots
even though those dots may not exist in an array. For the time being, cancer is a part of our
lives. As a family, we live with it every
day. It is constantly talked about,
always planned around, and sadly seems to take priority over much of what “used
to be.” We were concerned about him
blaming himself or feeling like he had done something wrong that caused all of
the constant commotion and buzz around cancer.
We approached Austin one evening before my surgery. Our intent was to be simple, straightforward
and easy, with it still being honest and caring. We explained that daddy has a “bug” in him
called cancer. We explained that it
wasn’t anybody’s fault; not daddy’s, not mommy’s and certainly not his or his
brothers. We explained that it isn’t
something that you can catch from daddy, so we don’t have to worry about him or
anybody else getting it from me. He sat
there, and listened intently. He paused
and then asked “how did you get cancer?”
That is a good question. We don’t
know, really. But we do know we have
good doctors who will make daddy better again.
We explained that the doctors would take the cancer out, and that would
probably mean I would need to rest for a bit. He seemed ok with that. He said he would help out, and daddy could
rest. He has also has learned where my
cancer is at, and finds that quite humorous.
The other day he reminded me that I only have one “sack-ball.” It took me a minute to figure out what he was
talking about, but once I caught on we both laughed.
Since that night, we have had several open dialogues with
him. He asks questions, we answer to the
best of our ability. The topic of death
has come up briefly, but thankfully that isn’t on his radar and thus he hasn’t
seemed to make that connection. Frankly,
neither have we. We make it a point to
check in with him on his thoughts on cancer.
We don’t do it frequently, or infrequently. We want him to be able to ask questions and
talk about his concerns, but don’t want it to be on his
mind a moment more than necessary, he is four after all.
Austin, Tanner and Zachary are the best medicine for Jamie
and me. They see things in such a pure
and empirical way. When I think of
chemotherapy I think of nausea, fatigue, heartburn, neuropathy, night sweats,
bald head, bald body, 7 hours in a chair for 5 days in a row, scary, pale,
weak, and seemingly endless. I carry
this brown bag full of pharmaceuticals, dispensable at a moments notice. Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m pregnant, going
through menopause or have cancer. I do
think of it as a cure, but sometimes get caught up in the “what ifs.” Austin sees chemotherapy as the thing that will
get cancer out. That is it; nothing
more, nothing less. Why shouldn’t we
think of it that way? I’m not
suggesting we live in denial, or deny the reality of cancer and chemotherapy, but
so much of this is a mental battle. It’s
nice to not have the clutter and noise at times. We play and are spontaneous, and we laugh and
we live. Tanner is beyond good at this,
it’s quite the talent he has. Even Zachary
has figured out how to crawl to join in on the ruckus. It’s refreshing to see this through the lens
of my children. I’m glad each of the
boys teaches us this.
One final comment:
Austin’s prayers. We could all
learn a lesson or two from a child’s prayer.
We have had many tender moments with the boys as we talk to Heavenly Father about this
often; before daddy goes to work, together at the dinner table, or knelt beside
their beds.
“Please bless that daddy’s cancer can be gone”
“Please bless that
the chemotherapy will get rid of daddy’s cancer”
These prayers along with the countless others offered on our
behalf are something we will always be thankful for and hold close to our hearts.
