Telling the Kids

Today I'm feeling: Good
A note on these "Today I'm feeling" statements: I don't have any scale for what I'm saying. "just fine" and "pretty good" and "good" are all pretty much the same. Basically, I'm feeling normal. You'll know when there's a change, I'm sure.

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We told the kids on Friday afternoon, after school. It was the hardest part of all of this, in some ways, but the easiest in some ways, because we'd told so many people between Tuesday and Friday that we were past some of the emotional reaction and could tell them calmly.

It was hardest, of course, because we weren't quite sure what to say. I read some things online about how to handle the subject with kids. We wanted to be positive and not scare them, but we also wanted to be honest, knowing that if they sensed we were keeping anything from them at all, they'd think the worst. I'd read that we shouldn't avoid the word "cancer," either, because they'll hear it from someone, and that will make it scarier, and they'd think we were hiding something.

We decided to tell them on Friday, after school, even though we'd first gotten the news on Tuesday. We figured doing so would give them three days (long weekend) to process it all, and three days for us to keep on eye on them and see how they were doing before they went back to school. Plus, my mom and dad were coming Friday afternoon, so they'd be both a distraction and another set of eyes and ears.

We sat them on the couch -- me between Peter and John on one couch, and Isabel with Catherine on the other. I told them that they'd had to go home from school with the Lamonts so much lately because we were seeing doctors who were trying to figure out what was wrong with me lately (I've been seeing about four doctors in the last few months for problems that may or may not be related to the NHL). I told them that we had bad news and good news. The doctors seemed to have figured it out: I had Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, which is a type of cancer. Both John and Peter stiffened up and inhaled sharply. I told them to keep listening, because there was more to tell them. And I explained what I could about what cancer is, what NHL is, and how it's a fairly non-aggressive type.

I aksed Peter if he'd ever heard of NHL before. He said he hadn't, and I reminded him that NHL is what Jon Lester had. He exhaled deeply and seemed to relax. It was what I had hoped for. Lester pitches for the Red Sox, and overcame it, and though he had a different type of NHL, Peter understood that not all cancer is an automatic death sentence. He seems to be hanging on to this, which is good for now. He seems to understand that it's serious, but it's his way of looking on the bright side, which I'm OK with. Though there's a little bit of denial in there, too.

we explained what was going to happen from here: I would have more tests to determine just what exactly was going on and where in my body it was happening, and then we'd figure out the treatments. Peter asked if I was going to lose my hair. I said I might, depending on the treatment -- some medicines do that. Peter said "Cool!" and the three of them laughed.

(I asked them later on if they'd consider shaving their heads in solidarity, if it came to that. They all said "No way!" I asked if I could shave the dog instead....They're very protective of that dog......)

We also told them that we were going to be very honest with them, and not hide anything from them. We told them they needed to be honest with us, too, and talk to us. Ask any questions they might have, to us to to their teachers, or any other adult. Remember that "cancer" is a scary word, and that if someone tells them something that sounds scary, talk to us, because we're the ones who know best what is going on. We asked if they had any questions.

John did. He wanted to know what would happen if I got very sick. (We have lots of family and friends who will be able to help us out.) And then he worked up the courage to ask what would happen if I died. (Isabel said we'd be OK. We have insurance to help with money, so we'd be able to live the same way. And, again, we have lots of family and friends to help out.)

Tough question to ask, and I'm proud of him for asking it. John has always had a deeper sense of his own mortality than other kids his age, and it comes from having the severe food allergies he has. He understands, on some level, that "circle of life." It comes from, or influences, his love of nature.

John has been having the hardest time of the three. He's worried, naturally. Friday night, when I put the boys to bed, he seemed worried. Sometimes he'll half-whisper something he sort of wants me to hear, but sort of doesn't. So he half-whispered "I wish this didn't have to happen to us." I told him I wished that too, but it has happened, and we need to work together to get through it. Then he half-whispered that he thought the car accident I'd had on the 31st might have caused this. (The web sites I'd read said that kids sometimes make those kinds of connections between the cancer and other events that happened before it.) I told him that it wasn't the car accident, or anything that I did, and certainly not anything that he did. It just happened, and sometimes tings just happen.

Last night, Isabel and I went out for dinner and a movie, and mom paid close attention to John. At one point, she heard John expressing his fears to Peter. Peter told him that I'm just fine, and as proof, told John that he'd heard me running on the treadmill in the morning. (I'm always up first, and Peter is always up second, and his hearing me running is a nice, normal morning sound that he hadn't heard for over a week.)

when John got up this morning, he asked me how I was doing. I told him I was fine, and he told me about his converation with Peter. I told him I was going to keep on running as long as I could, and reminded him that the medicine I may have to take might make me tired, maybe too tired to run.

So we're keeping an eye on John.

Catherine, through the initial conversation and since then, has seemed kind of blissfully ignorant. I don't think she quite grasps what this is all about. Which is probably OK. She's very sensitive to other people's emotions, and I'm guessing if/when things change, she's going to start getting it.

For now, if you encounter our kids, I'd say the best thing to do is take their cues. If they seem to need to talk, then ask them, subtly, if they want to talk. Maybe just ask how everything is going. If they don't take the bait, let it go. They all have great teachers who will be there for them, if they need that. What wouldn't be helpful is to, without invitation, say something like "This must be very hard for you." (Someone did that to me at my grandmother's wake, years ago. I was doing just great until then. The person was trying to be helpful, but wasn't. It wasn't anyone I wanted to open up to.)

They'll be OK.

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A couple of people e-mailed me earlier today to ask if I was OK, since I hadn't posted anything yet today.
It's Sunday, folks. Give me a chance to rest. Weekends are harder to post, since I'm fighting with the kids for computer time. So assume the best if you don't hear from me. I'll get there.

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And thanks to everyone who sent suggestions for movies we should see last night.
Several people recommended Alvin and the Chipmunks, figuring it was light-hearted fare for us. The problem is, Alvin's voice is a little grating for 90 minutes. Grating enough that I half-belive that Internet rumor that listening to Alvin's voice might actually kill cancer cells. We decided against that one.

We ended up seeing Charlie Wilson's War. It's a true story of a Congressman who visits a refugee camp full of wounded and maimed Afghanis, hurt by sadistic Soviets during the war in the 80's. Wilson works behind the scenes to secure funding for the Afghanis so they could buy stinger missiles and shoot down Soviet helicoptors, which they did in great numbers.

It was a comedy.