Weathering Storms with Our Kids (Talking to Kids About Cancer)

We made the decision to tell our kids the truth about everything during my original cancer diagnosis. We would tell them all that we knew, we would specifically use the word "cancer" instead of vague descriptions like "daddy is sick" or "daddy is hurt", and we would answer all of their questions completely and honestly.

When the news was shared, we knew they would ask very challenging and heartbreaking questions, like "Is daddy going to die?", but we wanted to ensure that our children knew everything. We told them that yes, people die from cancer, but that we had really good doctors who, based on what dad's cancer looked like and the available treatment options, believed that I would live a long life.

We made this decision because kids are extremely intuitive and can pick up on what's going on, even if you don't tell them. Without hearing directly from us, they would start to construct their own version of what's happening from the snippets of any info they overheard, filling in the gaps on their own, and coming to conclusions that may not be grounded in reality.

By telling our children the truth, we also convey to them that they are strong enough to handle the news and that we can overcome the most difficult things together.

We can sit with them in their pain, validate their emotions, answer their questions, and grieve with them as a family.

When telling our kids something so devastating, we were fearful about our own (still limited) capacity to regulate our own emotions. On the one hand, it can be very important to show emotional vulnerability, break down, and cry when discussing something so painful and sad, so that our kids know that emotional expression (even in adults) is normal, natural, and encouraged in our family.

But as parents, we are also their bedrock foundation of security and comfort. What would it do to their sense of security to see their caregivers break down? How can we adequately support them if we are not okay ourselves? Would this news shatter their sense that the world is a stable, trust-worthy place? What would the long-term implications be? Despite our concerns, we decided that we would be vulnerable and honest with our children.

We felt that the greatest gift we could give to our kids is confidence in their ability to face something unimaginably difficult, work through it together, identify and process all the fears and other emotions that come up along the way, and ultimately build resilience they will carry with them the rest of their lives. We would do this journey together and be stronger because of it.

Summer had settled in, everyone was getting along (a super rare occurrence), and the day had been peaceful. We were in a friend's beautiful backyard set on the top of a canyon ridge taking care of their chickens and picking some of their fruit while they were away. We were shaded by a tree perched on the edge of the ridge, next to their hillside full of fruit trees and a chicken coup, just as the sun had started to turn the neighboring hillside gold. It just felt like the right time, as if there was such a thing. We didn't plan what we would say ahead of time and didn't have a script.

In fact, it was kind of a spur of the moment decision - Erin looked at me and asked if I wanted to tell them. So I started. I told them that doctors had found cancer in my liver, that it had likely spread there from cells from my original colon cancer, that I was going to have surgery soon, and that this would be followed up with six months of chemotherapy to help ensure that the cancer did not come back.

Their hearts broke. And ours broke again.

Our oldest son, who tends to wear his heart on his sleeve, initially screamed "No!" and grew very upset. It was a lot for him to process. He had to get up and move his body to cope with the excess of strong emotions now surging through him. When he had taken in the news, he started to ask questions. Because he has inherited my knack for using humor to deflect from dealing with his emotions, he first asked if it was true that I had pooped on the exam table when the surgeon examined my butt - adding some much needed levity to the conversation.

We tried to balance honesty with optimism. When asked if this news meant that I was going to die, we told them no. We told them that the doctors were going to do everything in their power to ensure that daddy would live as long as possible. There were questions about what treatment would look like, and if we were still going to be able to go on our trip. Sadly, we shook our head no.

At some point, our oldest son ran off with our two little ones as a means to keep his body moving while his brain continued to process the news. We gave him space.

Our oldest daughter was quiet, but continued to ask questions that conveyed the spiraling level of fear she was facing. She is our quiet worrier, and it was clear that she was not okay. She had already had a rough year - losing three pets, being separated from her best friend at school, and facing an increasing amount of self-imposed pressure to perform well at school and in sports. This news, and the news that we would no longer be able to go on our family trip, was simply too much.

Fortunately, the young ones did not understand the news and what it meant for me and the family. They remained blissfully unaware of what was happening.

Later that evening, we found our oldest daughter on the floor of her room. She had angrily scribbled down all of the bad things that had happened to her this year and was muttering to herself that "Everything is stupid" and "The world hates us." "God must hate us." It was heartbreaking.

I gently laid down next to her and let her talk. I resisted my temptation - my parental urge - to distract her, to tell her everything was going to be okay, and instead I just listened.

I gave her permission to let the floodgates open, and down they went. She said there was no point to doing anything anymore because the world was bad and unfair. She named every bad thing that had happened this year. There was a lot on her list. And she expressed disbelief that things would ever, ever get better. There was no point to anything.

I suppressed my second parental urge, which was to counter her claims by pointing out all the good things that had also happened this year. To do so would directly invalidate how she was feeling. It was also challenging to resist the quick fix of offering to take her out for ice cream, or suggesting that we watch a movie together. Instead, we laid on the floor and grieved together.

I agreed that we had had more than our fair share of tough times and tragedy during these last twelve months. At times we sat in silence. At other times, I just let her be able to feel however she wanted to feel. I encouraged her to share with me however much she wanted to share, and let her know that we would get through this together.

After about half an hour of talking together, I asked if it would be okay if we laid on the bed and read Weather Together by Jessie Sima, a new picture book that Erin had recently bought for me that does a beautiful job of helping children (and adults) process challenging emotions and experiences. Please note, this link is connected to our Amazon Affiliate account. All proceeds will be donated to the Cancer Foundation of Santa Barbara.

The book is about a unicorn named Kelp and a pegasus named Nimbus who are best friends. In the book, they are surrounded by friends and everything should be sunshine and rainbows, except its not for Nimbus.

Nimbus is followed by a dark cloud that dampens her mood and limits her ability to be happy. She tries running from the cloud, hiding from it, and bottling it up, but nothing works. Eventually something small pushes Nimbus past her breaking point, and the storm from the cloud is unleashed. It is too much, and she runs away from everyone and finds a dark corner to hide in. She doesn't know what to do.

Eventually, she tries something new. She faces her cloud, greets it, and actually starts to learn about it. The more she gets to know her cloud, the less she wants to pretend it isn't there, run from it, or bottle it up. She is finally ready to talk, and found that Kelp couldn't wait to talk to her. Initially, they didn't know how to start a conversation, but Nimbus built up her courage and introduced her cloud to her friend.

Kelp got to know her cloud, and Nimbus grew increasingly comfortable with sharing it with him. Everything burst forth, and her friend helped her through it. In the end, Nimbus recognized that some days would be sunshine and rainbows, and some would be a little more cloudy. She realized that those days would be better if they were weathered... together.

After reading, we discussed how the cloud in the story could be many things - depression, a trauma or tragedy, or even cancer.

We also talked about how sharing the cloud with others can be extremely hard to do, but if and when you are able to do so, it can make it easier to process things and get through even the toughest times.

Eventually, we were able to go join the family for dinner and do other things. My oldest daughter wasn't "fixed" by our conversation. In fact, the next day, she reverted to a similar emotional state and we needed to sit and process things with her again.

But this time, she was a little better at being able to open up about her feelings and share with us. We are trying to create a safe space for her to feel however she wants to feel and have that be okay.

As hard as we try, we can't shield our children from the devastating things that life will throw at them. We can't take away their pain, or cover it up.

The best we can can do is sit with them in their pain, be there to listen and have hard conversations, and let them know that we will go through it with them, together.

Note: The Amazon book link above is linked to our affiliate account. All proceeds will be donated to the Cancer Foundation of Santa Barbara