The kids are alright

It’s been about eight weeks since we told our kids the unexpected news. Thinking back on that evening, they each seemed a little bit excited, as though we were about to tell them we won a trip to Disney World or were getting a new puppy or (shit!) Mom’s going to have another baby! Considering these were likely the top candidates for reasons we would sit them down in the living room with stern faces and no TV on, they took the news that their seemingly-invincible mom had breast cancer remarkably well. Note: Disney and/or puppy may be coming later as a consolation prize. Mom will not be having another baby, however.

People have always told me that children process as much information as they are capable of handling. Our discussion ended up being a really remarkable observation in developmental childhood psychology and a real lesson for Mark and me, as these special little creatures’ parents. From that night, we’ve taken our cues from them and have sworn to ourselves that we’d remain true to the advice given to us before that first discussion. And it’s worked, so far. (I keep saying so far because when you tell the planet how well your kids are doing in the face of this bullshit scenario you might suspect the Gods will go and mess it up. So here’s hoping, again.)

Since my pre-op appointment with the plastic surgeon, John has periodically checked in on the boobs. “How are your boobs?”, “Can I see your boobs?”, “Can your boobs get wet?”, that kind of thing. General concern and feigned curiosity, and not much more. He’s much more interested in whether he will get a blind bag in the morning for not peeing in the bed or if he can have just. one. more. snack. He is full of cuddles and love, though, and has been very understanding (and gentle (!)) if I can’t do something fast enough or pick him up or need a nap. I’ve been proud of him and appreciate his what-you-see-is-what-you-get attitude with this whole cancer thing.

Our middley one is our enthusiastic spectator that has provided companionship, general support and entertainment, and comfort, with the pure, easy confidence that comes oozing out of only a fourth grade girl. She’s been a JOY and a CHEER to be around and has even found the ability to laugh at herself when she starts to cop a ‘tude and I groan, “but come on….. I can’t…..” pathetically enough. She heard us when we told her that we have the best team in the world, with the best treatment, at the best hospital, and she believed us. When I got my drains out after surgery, she ran into the room when I got home and gave me a huge grin, high five and a fist pump and said “Mom! No drains! Nice!”. She has celebrated my wins with me and has cuddled in bed with me when I am feeling low. I am so grateful.

Our oldest gal understandably has had the hardest time with everything. Part smarts, part media (not just social, but breast cancer is EVERYWHERE), part chatter with friends, she knows this isn’t always as black and white as it appears. Add to my diagnosis two already life-altering circumstances: 1) She was moved to another soccer team and OH MY GOD ALL HER FRIENDS WERE ON THE OTHER ONE AND WHAT IS SHE GOING TO DO and 2) she started the sixth grade. Sixth grade is exciting, don’t get me wrong! But she went from her cocoon of elementary school to a totally new (awesome) school with kids from all over town and she has a HOMEROOM and she SWITCHES CLASSES and TAKES THE BUS and all of these new terrifying things and THEN SHE FOUND OUT NONE OF HER FRIENDS WERE IN HER CLUSTER.

The night before my surgery, as she processed all of these things, she joined me in my bed and sobbed to me, “First, you get breast cancer, then I get moved off my soccer team and now I won’t know anyone in my whole cluster”. I paused, hugged her, and then I burst into tears. I knew how she felt — sometimes enough is just ENOUGH, already. This totally freaked her out and she exclaimed, “Oh wait, I didn’t mean to make YOU cry!” to which I snorted back, “I WANT to cry. Middle school is scary. Missing your friends is hard. And I have breast cancer. Breast cancer sucks. Surgery sucks!” I hugged her and we cried a little more. And then, once we had wiped away the snot and tears, we made a deal: we would regroup one week from that night and do a pulse check on how things were going. I had to explain to her what a pulse check was and realized I was deploying my employee management tactics on my 11-year-old, but whatever. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

We forgot to have the pulse check. She reminded me the following Thursday night before bed and shrugged and said, “Eh, we can do it in the morning.” Which we did, over cereal and coffee. Mom feeling after surgery: 4.3/5 stars. New soccer team: 5/5 stars. Middle school: 4.5/5 stars.

And counting.