"How are the kids?"
I get a version of this question a lot. "How are the kids?" "How are the kids dealing with all this?" "Have you told the kids what's going on?"
My* kids are incredibly intuitive, but I am also very open with them, and always have been. No question is off limits (I would rather they get their info from me, anyway). They are also at the ages where they still love to snuggle, sleep next to me, sit with me to watch TV. So our conversations around my illness began at the time I had the biopsy, and the diagnosis news was delivered to them at age appropriate levels. I told my son that I had a disease called "cancer" that was in my boob, and I would have to get some really strong medicine that would make me sick for a while, but the kids would still be taken care of and I would still be there to hang out with them. I told my daughter a version of this, but used "sick" instead of "disease."
My son, James, is almost 7. He is a sensitive, mature, empathetic kid. You can almost see his wheels frequently spinning, and he is always the first to check on me. When I'm in bed after infusions, he comes up to the room specifically to ask if I need anything, if he can get me something, etc. When he asks questions about my cancer, you can always tell they are questions he's been ruminating on for a while, like when he asked, in the dark at bedtime, "aside from your sore boob, are you still fine?"
I was also candid with him that this would be going on until around Christmas. He acknowledged that it was a long time, and it has become his frame of reference for everything. "Is [xyz] going to happen before Christmas, or after Christmas?" "How many months until Christmas?" "How long after my birthday is Christmas?" But it's obvious that he isn't asking because he's ready for gifts.
He is a creature of routine, like me. He needs to do the same thing, in the same order, every day, and he remembers everything. This is potentially the most difficult thing for him, because I may not be the person doing some of his everyday things, every day.
My daughter, Vivian, is 3. She is full of life, assertive and self-advocating, funny and laughs easily. She is the ultimate companion; she gets dressed first thing in the morning, just in case there is an opportunity to go somewhere with someone. She is my shopping and cooking buddy. She always wants to be next to me when I'm not feeling well or when she's not feeling well.
She became cautious around my breasts after I explained what was happening. She stopped asking to nurse (we were all shocked that Miss Independent held on so long). She stares at my breast and my port when I'm naked around her...and then she will do something funny to cheer me up. Where James wants to make sure I have everything I need, Vivi wants to make sure I'm not sad. In fact, she asks one (or more) of us every day: "are you happy?" It's normally my mom, or her brother. She's a bit of (lot of) a hypochondriac, and thinks a bandaid cures everything instantly.
Which takes us to today. We were getting out of the shower, and she got and unwrapped a bandaid. "Here, mama. This is for you. It's for your boobie." 😢😂
She is extraordinarily affectionate, so long as it's on her terms. And when it is, she wants to be so close, she's practically a second skin. She is sitting on my lap as I type this. And this aspect has been the most difficult part for her. When she accidentally lays on my port and I say "ow," she melts down in tears.
And that's how my kids are doing. On my good days, you would never know anything was different. Vivi and I cook and shop; James and I talk about dreams and hang out in our pajamas; we do art projects. On the bad days, they help take care of me in their own special ways. They know what's going on, and they feel my pain on a certain level. I suppose this is the very definition of being "my hearts outside of my body." They are just really awesome kids, and I think we all look forward to "Christmas" when the worst of this is hopefully behind us.
*They are OUR kids. My husband's and mine. But as I am writing all of this from my own perspective, I organically type "my."
My* kids are incredibly intuitive, but I am also very open with them, and always have been. No question is off limits (I would rather they get their info from me, anyway). They are also at the ages where they still love to snuggle, sleep next to me, sit with me to watch TV. So our conversations around my illness began at the time I had the biopsy, and the diagnosis news was delivered to them at age appropriate levels. I told my son that I had a disease called "cancer" that was in my boob, and I would have to get some really strong medicine that would make me sick for a while, but the kids would still be taken care of and I would still be there to hang out with them. I told my daughter a version of this, but used "sick" instead of "disease."
My son, James, is almost 7. He is a sensitive, mature, empathetic kid. You can almost see his wheels frequently spinning, and he is always the first to check on me. When I'm in bed after infusions, he comes up to the room specifically to ask if I need anything, if he can get me something, etc. When he asks questions about my cancer, you can always tell they are questions he's been ruminating on for a while, like when he asked, in the dark at bedtime, "aside from your sore boob, are you still fine?"I was also candid with him that this would be going on until around Christmas. He acknowledged that it was a long time, and it has become his frame of reference for everything. "Is [xyz] going to happen before Christmas, or after Christmas?" "How many months until Christmas?" "How long after my birthday is Christmas?" But it's obvious that he isn't asking because he's ready for gifts.
He is a creature of routine, like me. He needs to do the same thing, in the same order, every day, and he remembers everything. This is potentially the most difficult thing for him, because I may not be the person doing some of his everyday things, every day.
My daughter, Vivian, is 3. She is full of life, assertive and self-advocating, funny and laughs easily. She is the ultimate companion; she gets dressed first thing in the morning, just in case there is an opportunity to go somewhere with someone. She is my shopping and cooking buddy. She always wants to be next to me when I'm not feeling well or when she's not feeling well.She became cautious around my breasts after I explained what was happening. She stopped asking to nurse (we were all shocked that Miss Independent held on so long). She stares at my breast and my port when I'm naked around her...and then she will do something funny to cheer me up. Where James wants to make sure I have everything I need, Vivi wants to make sure I'm not sad. In fact, she asks one (or more) of us every day: "are you happy?" It's normally my mom, or her brother. She's a bit of (lot of) a hypochondriac, and thinks a bandaid cures everything instantly.
Which takes us to today. We were getting out of the shower, and she got and unwrapped a bandaid. "Here, mama. This is for you. It's for your boobie." 😢😂
She is extraordinarily affectionate, so long as it's on her terms. And when it is, she wants to be so close, she's practically a second skin. She is sitting on my lap as I type this. And this aspect has been the most difficult part for her. When she accidentally lays on my port and I say "ow," she melts down in tears.
And that's how my kids are doing. On my good days, you would never know anything was different. Vivi and I cook and shop; James and I talk about dreams and hang out in our pajamas; we do art projects. On the bad days, they help take care of me in their own special ways. They know what's going on, and they feel my pain on a certain level. I suppose this is the very definition of being "my hearts outside of my body." They are just really awesome kids, and I think we all look forward to "Christmas" when the worst of this is hopefully behind us.
*They are OUR kids. My husband's and mine. But as I am writing all of this from my own perspective, I organically type "my."
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