Discussing Breast Cancer

Survivors often find themselves in the midst of depression. They’re facing their own mortality, for one. They’re tired, sick, sore … it’s tough to pick yourself up mentally when you don’t feel good physically. It’s been said that hormone fluctuations affect our mood - chemotherapy and hormone therapy reek havoc on your natural hormone levels. And it’s wintertime (here in the Northern Hemisphere at least) … and these cold, dreary days are for the birds.

You’re not alone. Up to one-third of women diagnosed with breast cancer face mood disorders of some type.

Here’s what I need to tell you: it’s important to get help. If not for yourself, for your children: Research indicates that children of depressed breast cancer patients are more likely to be concerned or anxious about their mother’s cancer and its implication for their families.

My recommendation:

(1) Talk openly about your disease with your children — the positive spin you’ll likely want to put on it for their sakes will benefit your own psyche as well.

(2) Talk openly about your disease with whoever you have around you — it’s therapeutic to share those negative emotions. Purge them, get them out, so you can put all the energy you can muster up towards your treatment. Got nobody? Comment here or on an online support site like breastcancer.org.

(3) Talk openly with a medical professional. They can prescribe medication to help manage your mental distress. This is not the time to be too proud, or too vain. Get help. Nobody should go into battle without a fully loaded arsenal. If you already take something, tell them it’s not working. They need to know.

Don’t deal with depression alone.

So we’re at the grocery store, shopping for the ingredients I needed to make an awesome appetizer to bring to a Super Bowl party … and my six year old son Alex spies something on the shelves that incites him to a near riot.

“Look Ma, Breast Cancer Root Beer,” the kid shouts at the top of his lungs. I was, after all, at the other end of the aisle. He comes running up to me with a can of Hansen’s Creamy Root Beer Soda — shouting, “See?” and pointing to the pink ribbon proudly displayed on the side.

There it was on the side. A City of Hope logo. He got me, this kid. I was going to buy him a can of root beer. I had just been writing about the lack of pink ribbons since October came to pass. No doubt my kids have been missing the ribbons as well.

But here’s what cracked me up: there were two tall twenty-something year old men donning New York Giants jerseys walking the same aisle as me and my kids when my son showed the world the ‘Breast Cancer Root Beer!’ The guys laughed in spite of themselves, and one of them said, ‘that’s something I would have said!’ to his buddy — completely understanding my son’s excitement over his discovery.

What’s up with that?????

I did some research when I got home, by the way. From their website: “Hansen’s will match your contribution up to $1,000 per person or family*. Simply click on the donation link at the bottom of the page and you will be redirected to the official City of Hope donation page. When filling out donor information, under additional information, check “other” and type in “Hansen’s” and the donation offer code that is located on cans of Hansen’s Natural Sodas or Hansen’s Smoothie Nectars.”

A woman I know that is currently in treatment for breast cancer shared a story with me today that brought up so much pain — even tonight as I type I feel like weeping.

This woman’s young child recently said to her, ‘Mommy, God told me you’re going to be sick a long time.’ To that she explained that she would be sick for a long time, but she would get well eventually, and it wouldn’t feel quite so long looking back.

Then her child said, ‘God said I’m going to miss you.’

Of course, we were both crying as she uttered those words.

Nothing is worse than seeing your child in pain because of your illness. Nothing.

You know, when you have cancer, you can tell your child you aren’t going anywhere, that you’ll be okay, that it will get easier, but the truth is … you don’t know. You don’t know if your life will get cut short. You don’t know if your pain will lessen. All you can do is hope and pray and think positively. But your kids sense that you aren’t sure.

It is hard to talk to kids with real certainty when nothing is certain anymore.

We will never know if God really said these things to this child (He could have, for sure). We will never know if Satan muttered in that poor child’s ear (he could have, too, I suppose). We will never know if the child just said these things to see what kind of reaction the statements would elicit (that could be true, for sure).

When a parent has cancer, a child needs assurance and unfortunately, sometimes assurance isn’t easy to come by.

So … how would you help this child?

“Every step I take brings me closer to the realization of my dreams.”

This is a passage out of a new self-help type book by motivational speaker Judi Moreo (on the right), called You Are More Than Enough Achievement Journal. I believe journaling is a smart, healthy way to process your healing journey. It’s a way to express your thoughts and feelings and hopes and wishes and prayers and fears … without having to voice them to the world. It’s almost as important as prayer in the life of a survivor … but heck, who am I to preach about the benefits of journaling! Instead, allow me to introduce you to author Judi Moreo herself in this guest post she wrote for me to share:

Life is happening so fast, there’s no time for stillness or reflection. Many of us have forgotten how to listen to the still, small voice inside of us. Writing in a journal is taking time for yourself. You are giving yourself permission to express your feelings and access your intuition. Writing a journal is a discipline…the discipline of taking care of your inner self. Discipline is the key to all success!

Journaling is how we keep track of the steps.

Thank you Judi … wasn’t that great? (Here’s another link to Judi’s site, this one specifically to her blog — there’s great reading material there!)

When I first read the excerpt that I started this post with, “Every step I take brings me closer to the realization of my dreams,” I thought … what are my dreams … how has being a survivor changed them … what steps do I need to take to get closer to them …

I realize now that my dreams are much simpler than they used to be. I don’t need to travel the world, I want to experience new places with my family wherever we all wind up. I don’t need a grand house on a hill, I want a home where we can all live happily together. I don’t need fame and fortune, I want to be truly known by the people I’m blessed to have in my life.

The first step for me has been to spend more time with people, talking, traveling, playing … living life, together.

Now it’s your turn … what are your dreams? Have they changed? What steps are you taking to realize them? Are you journaling?

cancer, breast cancer, journaling, prayer, Judi Moreo, motivation, healing, health, wellness, health and wellness, survivor, dreams

How does a woman without her two main abdominal muscles muster on the ski slopes? I’ll tell you in a minute. First, here’s some background:

My husband and I used to ski quite a bit. We belonged to a ski club called The Ski Bears of Connecticut (a club for mostly single people [or couples without children] who were passionate about both skiing and, ahem, socializing) — we went on several fantastic ski trips a year until I got pregnant with our first. Three kids and two breast cancer diagnoses later … I’m a completely reconstructed woman and I doubted I had it in me to take on a mountain.

However, we’d always wanted to get our kids out there on the slopes. We wanted them to learn the sport while they were still close to the ground. We’d always envied and admired people that had been skiing since childhood and saw those kids skiing around us as fearless wonders.

Our oldest is eight — it was time to act before we missed out window with him. We chose the day. We chose the mountain. We picked up rentals (having sold our own equipment years ago b/c it was getting outdated). The only question was … could I still ski? I tried ice skating earlier this winter and the only trouble I really had was getting up off the ice once I went down. But my will to ski was strong — and at least I had the mountain and my poles by my side to assist me if I fell.

At 10:00 am we brought the boys to ski school. Shortly thereafter, we hit the slopes with our daughter. We traversed to the lift. We waited in line. It was their turn first. I got on the chair behind them. So far, everything was going smoothly. As I headed up the mountain I started to wonder. If I could no longer get up off the couch without help, how would I compensate getting off a ski lift? I lifted the bar. I lifted the tips of my skiis. I held my poles in one hand and pushed off the side of the chair with my free hand and I was off.

I was thrilled. I was comfortable. I was confident. I was able to ski.

The entire time the boys were in ski school, I skied alongside my husband/daughter team (she was between his legs the whole time so they really were a single skiing unit for the day). When the boys’ lesson was over, we grabbed a quick lunch, then headed out. My daughter was still skiing with my husband, the designated partner for her because he was clearly the strongest, most able to keep her safe. My oldest was fairly proficient at the sport after just one lesson, needing a little help when he fell until he learned how to get himself up, but otherwise skiing strong for his first time out. My middle son … well, he needed his momma.

At six years old, my middle son had the desire to ski on the bigger slope, but a fear of falling that I understood pretty well. He hadn’t yet achieved the ability to stop or turn — he really needed more time on the bunny hill but we wanted him to stay with us.

So there I was, a woman with a belly made of mesh, snowplowing beside him, giving him the handle end of my ski poles to hold, escorting him down the mountain time and time again. He loved it.

Not only could I ski … but I could ski with my kids.

What’s your biggest feat post-TRAM flap?

breast cancer, cancer, children, health, health and wellness, ice skating, kids, skating, Ski Bears, skiing, TRAM flap, wellness

Whether you are in the midst of cancer treatment, in survivor mode or caring for someone with cancer, the holidays are going to happen. Cancer doesn’t wait until the holidays are over. Cancer happens when it happens.

But having cancer around doesn’t mean the holidays have to suck. Maybe things will be different for you this year. Maybe things will be different for your family. But that’s okay … different can still be wonderful. You just have to change the way you think about it.

That’s why I’m starting this three part series: to get you ready to enjoy a different holiday. Today I’m focusing on the person with cancer. Whether you were just diagnosed, recovering from surgery, going through radiation or chemotherapy … today that’s what we’re talking about. Tomorrow I’ll talk to those of you in survivor mode, the person with the physical cancer treatment behind them. Then Thursday, I’ll focus on the caregivers.

For your reference, I’m a two time survivor and just last December I had my post-Tram-flap hysterectomy while my mother endured her last two chemotherapy cycles. It was emotionally difficult to get our minds around the fact that our holidays would be tainted. We were both forced to consider our notion of what the holidays should be, what we felt we had to do versus what we wanted to do. I personally realized in that year what really mattered to me when it came to the holidays.

For example, I always spent a considerable amount of time baking holiday cookies. I was worried that things just wouldn’t be the same without them. What I realized after reflection was that I wanted the time shared with my kids baking cookies just like I’d had with my own mom growing up. It made me sad, because I couldn’t stand in my kitchen with them amidst seven layer bars, peanut butter blossoms and snickerdoodles. So when a friend of mine offered to come over and bake with my kids on my behalf, I took her up on that offer. She had a ball and so did my kids. And you know what, so did I, listening from the other room as she tried to explain to my two year old what not to do when baking cookies (like sneeze into your hand then pick up more batter, that kind of thing). She created a new memory for me that I cherish — and my kids? They had mounds of fun listening to holiday music and eating cookie dough and getting sticky licky.

What mattered was the actual experience I wanted my kids to have, not how the experience happened. I wanted to be a part of it, but I didn’t have to be central to it.

Remember, it is not up to you to create memories for your kids — they are doing memorable things all the time and making new memories of their own all the time. Letting them have good memories of their own, even if they are different from the ones you have from your own childhood, is okay.

Another point … I love a decorated home. But I don’t love a decorated home nearly as much as my mother-in-law does. So it made perfect sense for me to sit back and watch her to deck my halls for me when I was down and out. It didn’t matter if I’d done it myself; all that was important was the feeling we get when surrounded by festive beauty.

We all have opinions about what we think our holidays should be … what they should look like, how they should sound, what they should feel like. I urge you to reframe yours. Maybe you don’t need to cook the entire meal. Some grocery stores even have tasty pre-cooked foods you can pass off as your own by transferring to a pretty bowl. Isn’t the point to enjoy a meal together as a family? Or, maybe you don’t need to wrap every gift. A few strategically unwrapped gifts might actually thrill your kids. And really, do your children even notice the bows? Think about it.

And about that Christmas tree … artificial trees are really low maintenance. No dropped needles, no endless checking of the stand for water. They go up in a flash and by the way, Yankee Candle makes a really good Sparking Pine scent. If you always pick one out or cut one down, maybe make a memory picking out a special wreath that the whole family admires or sipping cocoa outside in the snow. It’ll be a new memory, but new is okay if it fits your energy level this year. Just a thought.

There are so many things you can take off your plate to make your holiday a little less fatiguing. Let people help you by shopping and baking and decorating. Let someone else do holiday crafts with your kids. Check your ego at the door (yes, you still have one, even if you think you don’t). It’s okay if you aren’t doing everything. It’s actually kind of liberating.

Cancer doesn’t wait until the holidays are over. But that doesn’t mean you should wish the days away faster.

cancer, breast cancer, holidays, shopping, baking, decorating

Each year on Election Day, my kids’ elementary school PTA has a skating party at a local ice rink. Year after year we go; my kids, my dad and myself. My dad loves skating. And I’ve loved watching my dad skate with my boys. He’s been amazing, each year, holding their hands, trying to teach them how to balance and move forward without wiping out. I’ve not even had to get on the ice; he’s had it all under control.

But this year my dad didn’t want to skate – I’m not sure if the cold he’s had is still bothering him or if he felt weak in the knees – frankly, I don’t want to think too much about his reasons why (he’s not getting any younger, God bless him). He’d come, and he’d bring my niece along as well, but he wasn’t skating this year.

You know that meant one thing was for sure: I was going to have to get out there on the ice with my boys, relocated abdominal muscles and all thanks to that TRAM flap. They were just too young and inexperienced to get out there on their own. They needed their mommy.

Oh, I was so nervous. I hadn’t skated since I was a kid. I desperately wanted to help my boys but I wasn’t sure I’d be much good. But I was out there with them, lap after lap, holding their hands and supporting their arms and coaching them each glide of the way.

Once my son took me down with him. He fell gracefully and I fell with a boom right on my face (I kept my chin up; my knees took the brunt of the fall). Another time one of his classmates took me down after sliding right into the back of my knees – that boom was right on my ass. My spine is still hurting from that one.

Both times I went down I needed help getting up. Without those abdominal muscles, man, certain activities are much more challenging than you can imagine. It takes a whole lot of reprogramming to get my side muscles to compensate for their missing counterparts.

But I did it and man, I just felt so … alive. And so much like a mother. The kind of mother I want to be. Helping my kids achieve their milestones. Coaching them through difficult times. Holding their hands when they are uncertain. Seeing them conquer their fears.

At the end of our time on the ice, we all went for pizza. My dad looked at me at one point and said, “You’re a good skater, you know? You did good today.”

I know he was thinking of my physical accomplishment. But for me, it was about a whole lot more than that.

Yeah, I did good today.

cancer, breast cancer, ice skating

A few days after my surgery (I believe it was day five) I was ready for my children to come and visit. No, that’s not true. I wasn’t ready for that at all. My children were ready to visit me.

My youngest, two at the time, was not part of the equation. There was no way I wanted her to see me briefly then have to leave me. Her separation anxiety was peaking and that felt like a cruel thing to do — it would be a tease. She was missing me, for sure, but as long as my parents kept her busy, she was distracted. I was missing her but had to think of what was best for her and not for me. That’s what mommies do, isn’t it?

(more…)

Remember the relief and the joy you felt as a kid on that last day of school? I do. The streamers out the bus window. The songs banishing teachers dirty looks. Mom waiting for you at home, smile on her face, arms outstretched, joy in her own heart, too.

That’s the mom I am today. While some moms are stressed because summer camp can’t start soon enough and others are saddened by the quick passing of time in their children’s lives, I am one happy momma.

Because I’m here for another summer. I’m able to take my kids to the beach, the zoo and the aquarium. I’m able to move my body well this summer (couldn’t say that last June). I’m so blessed.

So many people think survivors no longer ’sweat the small stuff’ — but that’s not necessarily true. Believe me, I still freak out over little things and have to remind myself they are indeed little things. That’s simply human nature.

What survivors do that is different is soak up the small stuff — the good small stuff that others brush off so quickly. I stayed in the freezing cold waters of Long Island Sound yesterday for an insanely long time so I didn’t have to stop swirling my five year old around. His little hands in mine warmed my heart and that just felt so good. I spoon fed my three year old daughter her dinner last night even though she’s been capable of feeding herself for at least a year just because I love the way she uttered ‘ummmmmmm’ after every bite and I couldn’t hear that enough. Then I sat on my bed this morning and watched my seven year old play his hand held video game on my bed because the rising sun made the highlights in his light brown hair sparkle.

Just feeling my kids. Seeing them. Hearing them. That’s such a gift.

Forget about not sweating the small stuff.

Soak up the small stuff.

My parents showed up at the house early so we didn’t have to wake the kids. All three were still asleep in their beds as my husband and I got ourselves ready. I took a shower, the last one I’d take for weeks. I didn’t put on jewelry or make up but I did put on my most comfortable sweats.

I explained to my mom that my oldest needed a snack and a drink and lunch and a drink and my middle child needed a snack and a drink for preschool. I explained that I usually let them choose what they wanted for breakfast; easy on the syrup if they chose waffles, no chocolate milk if they chose a kids cereal.

I explained to my dad the drop off and pick up procedures at the elementary school and the preschool.

I explained my youngest child’s nap time schedule and strategy.

And I cried. I didn’t want to walk out the door. I knew I’d be in the hospital for days, not because of the double mastectomy but because of the reconstruction. The TRAM flap was a huge surgery that warranted a possible five day hospital stay.

I was going to miss my babies. I knew they were going to miss me.

I left a white index card on each child’s pillow with a few easy to read words to express how I love them (so much) and how I’d miss them (so much). I signed it with a lipstick kiss. Long lasting color.

That lipstick is still on those cards still in their dresser drawers one year later.

I couldn’t have coffee so my head started to hurt as much as my heart as my husband pulled out of the driveway and began the half hour drive to Yale.

Breast Cancer, Double Mastectomy, Surgery, Reconstruction

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On Monday, April 3rd, 2006, I headed to Yale for another Stereotactic Core Needle Biopsy of my right breast tissue. The same breast that was surgically treated then radiated not three years prior. (Persistent little buggers, aren’t they, those cancer cells?)

In an earlier post, I explained my first biopsy so I’ve no need to bore you with the details in this one. The only difference between my first biopsy and this one was (1) the location (Norwalk Hospital vs. Yale) and (2) the fact that I’d already had bad news once so I no longer lived in denial, I no longer felt it couldn’t happen to me, and as a result I was an emotional wreck.

Fortunately, a nurse practitioner from my surgeon’s office joined the crew of technicians and stood next to me speaking to me with a soothing voice and rubbing my back the entire time. Seriously, that’s what she did, and it made a difference. I felt cared for, and safe, and though I was scared, I knew I’d be alright even if it proved to be cancer again. And it did. I had a breast cancer recurrence.

A few days later I got the call from Elspeth Knill-Selby, A.P.N., Affiliated, Surgery. Invasive Ductal Carcinoma and DCIS cells were found in the tissue sample. Most likely it was still caught early (Stage 1), but we’d need full pathology done to confirm that diagnosis. Pathology that would be completed after a mastectomy and a sentinel node biopsy.

All that information was given to me over the phone. Now some people don’t like getting information like that over the phone. But in my case, honestly, I’m so busy with my kids and I have a strong relationship with Elspeth. So I didn’t mind that aspect of the diagnosis at all.

What I did mind was that I was facing some hard decisions: a single mastectomy of the involved breast, a double mastectomy, reconstruction and if yes, what kind.

The morning of August 18th, my husband and I headed up to Yale first thing in the morning. The kids were at my mom’s so we didn’t have to worry about them, all we had to do was figure out what to listen to on the radio during the 1/2 hour car ride.

Our first stop at Yale was mammography; I know, I’d already been there, done that. But the surgery I was to have required one additional step: wire localization. Basically, the radiologist in mammography would insert a wire into my breast as a guide for my surgeon in the OR — he’d know exactly where the malignancy was and could be more precise in his surgical efforts.

Of course, I was awake for that, then had to be wheeled to the hospital OR with a wire sticking out of my body. Not very pleasant!

In the OR, I was given drugs to relax me … I was sort of asleep for the procedure but also sort of awake, and though I felt nothing, I was aware of what they were doing. I even heard the surgeon on the phone with pathology confirming that the margins looked good.

As I was coming out of that groggy place, I heard the doctor explaining the procedure to the nurse that was tending to me. I saw my husband, smiling, relieved it was over. Very little time passed and I was able to go home that day. The incision healed quickly, and though I was to baby it for a while, I hardly had any restrictions. It was nothing … kind of odd, actually. It sounded so much worse than it was.

When the pathology came back, it confirmed that I had Grade 2 DCIS but indeed, the margins looked clear, which meant I didn’t need a follow up surgery and wouldn’t require chemotherapy. It was a huge success, a huge relief. At that point, I was left with just one question: would I be starting radiation therapy before my son’s 4th birthday on September 15th or before I turned 36 on September 18th.

Yesterday’s announcement sidetracked me a bit so let me back up … we were discussing how to help your kids cope with a cancer diagnosis.

I knew my kids would need special attention while I was “sick” — at about two and four they were still babies in my eyes. As their primary caregiver, caring for them was my top priority on a daily basis; their welfare was my top concern when I realized I’d need treatment. I knew I’d have doctors appointments, surgeries, radiation therapy, maybe chemotherapy. While my life was about to be markedly changed I felt it was important for my kids to have a consistent routine, a loving caregiver and more daily fun than they’d ever experienced. I figured if I could “reframe” the experience into a positive one for them we’d all be better off.

I was blessed in that my mother didn’t live far and was able to come over much of the time I was in treatment. Because of that, I was able to achieve all my goals for their care. She met their basic needs but also got on the floor and played with them every day. They looked forward to her arrival. One day when my treatment was over he asked her if she remembered, ‘the good old days,’ when she used to come over and they would play together. The good old days. Can you imagine?

There’s also lots of quiet activities I found my children content to do while I was in bed. I purchased them lap desks so they could color by my side. They watched favorite DVDs and videos while I dosed. We read, and read, and read, all kinds of books. I swear, their love of reading might be directly related to the bond we shared with books during that time. They also had sleepovers at their cousins’ houses and special outings with Dad. Really, they were having a blast.

But let me get back to those basic needs …

My sound advice is to urge people to resist the temptation to ask them to take care of mommy because what they really need to know is who is going to take care of them. My oldest son, six years old at the time of my second diagnosis (I know, I’ll get to that soon) actually asked this question of me:

“When you’re sick, who is going to make my school lunches and stuff like that?”

Moms do it all and your kids know it. Don’t underestimate how important this is to them, how recognized it is though it mostly goes unsaid, and reassure them that another grown up will step up and take care of them when you cannot.

Also, never forget how much they love you, and as long as their basic needs are met, they just want to be with you. So work that in as best you can … just be close to them even if you can’t be up and about.

Finally, demystify the whole experience for a slightly older child if you can. I brought my four year old to the radiation therapy clinic one day just so he could see what is was all about. He still talks about seeing me wave to him on the monitor that day while sitting on the technician’s lap. He realized it wasn’t as scary as he had built it up to be in his head once he saw it with his own eyes.

FYI, I gave my boys these activity books from the American Cancer Society: Because Someone I Love has Cancer.

And here’s a link to some other great books on the topic of helping kids cope with cancer.

After my breast cancer diagnosis, I realized I’d have to explain to my children what was going on in a way that they’d understand and wouldn’t scare them or bring on unnecessary stress.

They were 2 and 4 years old. How much did they need to know? How much could I protect them from? I did some research online made a phone call to the American Cancer Society to ask for guidance.

Regardless of your children’s age, here’s a universal truth: telling your children something right away takes some fear off their minds — they’ll already know something is wrong because your routine will be altered and your anxiety and stress will show in your parenting. Don’t let them think the worst and worry on their own. Be matter of fact and age appropriate in your explanations. Conceal some of your own anxieties (only the worst ones) but don’t be afraid to show them some as well — they’ll share it with you instead of wondering if it is worse than you are letting on. Tell them to ask you any questions they have … and answer them honestly as best you can. And do some reading before the questions come up so you aren’t caught off guard. They may ask you about losing you, either temporarily because of a hospital stay or because you’ll die … be prepared to talk to them about it, don’t just brush off their concern. Make sure they understand that you are sick, but it is not a contagious kind of sick. They won’t catch it from you. They may also wonder who is going to take care of them if you are unable to — reassure them that they will be cared for no matter what!

My age-appropriate explanation went something like this:

“Our bodies are made up of cells, like Ms. Frizzle explains on the Magic School Bus, remember? Well, Mommy has some sick cells in her body. I need to have them removed and take some medicine to make sure my cells stay well. I need to make important phone calls to arrange my doctor’s appointments and understand my treatment and I might need to be on the phone a lot in the next few days. Can you cooperate with me on that?”

If you take the mystery out of it, they won’t be as stressed that they are being left out of something important. Allow them to be a part of it. It is their reality, they have a mother with breast cancer, and that will not change. It will make them who they are as adults; it is a part of their life story and the sooner you accept that, the more easily you can factor it into your parenting decisions.

It is possible your kids would benefit from a support group or counseling. So look for signs that they are internalizing their situation. Is their stress coming out in their artwork or schoolwork? Are they acting out? Alert their school teachers and social workers to be on the lookout as well … they can help you and alert you to any issues they notice when your kids aren’t in your care.

Remember, children don’t necessary have the experience to equate cancer with death the way we do as adults. My nieces were older (6, 8 & 9) … it didn’t dawn on them that breast cancer and death often went hand in hand until supportively went to a Relay for Life event and saw the luminaries … that’s when they needed reassurance. So if your child is older, you may want to be prepared to talk about death (especially if you are dealing with late stage disease). Charlotte’s Web is a great book to read, too, that features death and grief as a natural part of lie.

Of course, each age brings a different level of understanding; my simple explanation won’t work for older kids. Subsequent diagnoses also brings great stress and new questions, I can attest to that personally, but we’ll discuss that in a later post).

Your diagnosis is out of your control. But you can control how you and your kids are armed to fight. Here are some links to help you assess how to take up arms:

The American Cancer Society has some great resources to help children deal with a cancer diagnosis.

Cancer Care for Kids is another resource you should check out.

Finally, KidSupport has great information to peruse and use.

Throughout your treatment, check in with them from time to time, ask if they have questions or concerns. And give them as much attention as you can. When I was in treatment, I found really clever ways to give attention to my kids. I’ll share that with you tomorrow!

The call to inform me I had breast cancer came in on Thursday, July 17, 2003. But each time the phone had rung between the time I walked out of that hospital door and the time the call actually came in I’d have an adrenalin surge.

The biopsy was positive for intraductal carcinoma in situ. I wrote down the words as the surgeon explained them to me. I knew that carcinoma meant cancer so I stopped hearing what she was actually saying because my head was reeling with that single word. Carcinoma.

I had DCIS. Stage 0 breast cancer. Historically considered ‘pre-cancer’ but now known to be the pre-cursor to a more advanced form of the disease. My surgeon had booked an OR for the following Thursday.

I wrote down as much information as I could. Then, I picked up the phone and called my husband at work. “I got the call,” I told him. “I have breast cancer.” He was speechless, of course. The information is impossible to process. His wife, friend, lover, mother to his children … had breast cancer.

I tried my parents’ house, no answer. My mother’s cell phone, no answer. So I packed up the boys and just started on the half-hour drive to their home. I needed my mother.

My parents phoned me on my cell phone as soon as they saw that I’d called. When I told them the biopsy was positive there was silence on the other end of the phone. After all, I was their baby, their youngest child and I was telling them I had cancer. What words could they possibly use at that moment?

Within minutes (so it seemed) of my arrival at my parents’ house they came home; my husband also arrived at their house (who could possibly work when their spouse tells them they’ve been diagnosed with cancer?).

Together we tried to process the information my surgeon had given me on the phone. I was 100% treatable. I’d most likely need surgery then radiation therapy. But I was 100% treatable. We pondered over the fact that she didn’t say, ‘curable.’

I knew this meant that I wouldn’t be taking that business trip so I called my client and again, there was that silence on the other end of the line.
Apparently shock, devastation and speechlessness are linked in your brain’s processing unit.

Then it hit me hard: if this is how the adults in my life were taking the news, how would I tell my children?