I'd be remiss if I didn’t give credit where credit is due during one of the more delicate moments of this journey. On May 9, we met with Beth, the social worker at the Piper Breast Cancer Center, who was a true gem in helping us navigate how to talk to the kids about my diagnosis.
From my days at Optum, one of the biggest takeaways I still carry is this: when something really matters, preparation is everything. It’s like heading into a championship game with a solid playbook. And even though this wasn’t a boardroom presentation to execs, it was arguably more important—this was a conversation with four kids, ages 4 to 14, about cancer, surgery, and what would come next.
So, I grabbed my trusty "you've got this" notebook—the same one holding scribbles from every appointment—and tuned in as Beth began coaching us through it all.
She explained the sooner we told the kids, the sooner we’d feel a sense of relief. Colten, the oldest at 14, already knew. He’s mature, grounded, and wise beyond his years—so it made sense to loop him in early, not just as a son, but as a big brother that the other kids could lean on.
Beth encouraged us to gather everyone together and tell it as a story so they’d all hear the same message. She even role-played with us, saying, “If I were in your shoes, here’s how I would do it…” And just like that, I was furiously jotting down this simplified, kid-friendly version:
“You know how you guys go to the doctor each year to make sure you're healthy? Well, moms go too, but we get a special picture taken of our boo boo’s (Layla’s term for boobs that stuck). This year, my doctor found a black icky spot—it’s called cancer. So Dad and I have been meeting with doctors to figure out how to get it out of my body. For me, that means taking off one of my boo boo’s. When they do that, they'll put something like a balloon in its place. I’ll come home with two little tubes in my side to help with healing, and after a while, the balloon will get filled up to match my other boo boo. Later on, I’ll have another surgery to make it permanent.”
It was gentle. Honest. Visual. And—most importantly—it was something they could understand.
So, on May 11, after the kids came back from their other parents’ homes, we sat down in the living room. I followed the script—loosely—and to my surprise, there were no tears or questions.
Beth had prepared us for anything: tears, confusion, anger, even giggles. And sure enough, Reed and Layla leaned into silliness (classic), while Colten stayed grounded and calm. We made it clear:
- Cancer isn't contagious
- They didn't cause this
- I’m not going anywhere; they are stuck with me 🤣
The whole thing lasted maybe 7 minutes. Then they scattered—one to bed, one outside and two to a quick round of Fortnite with their friends. But I was worried and mostly about Reed. I figured he needed some time to process, and I would circle back to see if he had any questions or thoughts.
And just like that, Beth was right. The weight we had carried for over two weeks lifted. A little preparation, a lot of heart, and a reminder that kids are more resilient than we sometimes give them credit for.
When Kids Connect Through Cancer: A Conversation That Matters
One of the unexpected things about sharing my diagnosis publicly was the wave of messages I received—stories of shared experiences, struggles, and support. Some were from close friends, others from people I barely knew. But each one reminded me that cancer touches more lives than we often realize.
One of those messages came from a neighbor. We had met only once, though our kids had played together a handful of times. She had recently been diagnosed as well. Her journey looked very different from mine, but that didn’t matter—we exchanged resources, encouragement, and solidarity in a way only those on this path can truly understand.
A few days later, after she and her husband had told their kids, I asked if I could share with Reed that "Jake’s mom" (not his real name) had cancer too. My hope was simple: if Reed ever saw Jake having a rough day at the bus stop, school, or around the neighborhood, he could extend an extra dose of kindness.
She loved the idea—and shared the same with Jake about "Reed’s mom."
That night, I told Reed. And that was when the floodgates opened.
We sprawled out on our stomachs on his bed, controller in hand, the quiet hum of his game filling the room.
First came the surprise: “I can’t believe Jake’s mom has cancer too.”
Then, the questions:
- “Are you going to die?”
- “What happens if something goes wrong in surgery?”
- “What even is chemotherapy?”
He asked everything—some simple, some complex, some I wasn’t entirely sure how to answer in a way that would bring comfort instead of fear.
But here’s the thing: he asked.
He was processing, trying to make sense of something so big, something that had suddenly become real to him. And that alone was brave.
After I gave him a tight squeeze and left his room, I knew his mind was still working, still turning things over, still trying to piece together what all of this meant.
That night was the first time I felt that he truly understood what cancer was. And while I hate that he has to understand it at all, I was so relieved he had found the courage to talk about it.
Sometimes, connection comes in the most unexpected ways.
This was one of them. 💙
You are amazing!
ReplyDelete