You Think You Know Someone

Telling my children I had cancer was tricky. I wanted to be honest, but didn’t want to terrify them. I wanted to address their questions, but didn’t have answers. I wanted to seem confident, but was scared to death. For a person whose face registers every emotion, who cannot lie and pretend things are pretty when they aren’t, portraying cool and collected was a tall order.

Fortunately, the cancer conversation with my then 13-year-old daughter Anabelle happened in my husband Pete’s truck as he drove her home from basketball practice. 

“Dad told me,” she said when she arrived home and found me in the family room.

“It’s not the same situation as Pop’s,” I began. My father had died from prostate cancer a few weeks earlier, and my three children were still grappling.

“I know. Dad told me.” She didn’t budge from the doorway.

“I’m going to be alright. Breast cancer is so common, and the doctor says mine is 100 percent curable.”

“I know.” She blew out a puff of air.

“Are you OK? Do you want to ask me anything?”

“I’m fine! And I already talked to dad.”

Case closed. Not typical of my girl, who never lets anything die, who talks incessantly, always. But I went with it. Subject dropped.

Through my bilateral mastectomy and the start of chemo, Anabelle remained mum about my big C. She didn’t talk to anyone - not her grandparents, not her friends, teachers, coaches, siblings. No one.

“I know it’s hard to see me like this,” I said to her on one of my bedridden days while we cuddled under the covers. “It’s the chemo that’s making me sick, not the cancer. But it’s OK to be afraid.”

“I’m fine,” she said, burying her head in the pillow.

Another time: A friend delivered a tray of chicken parm to our house for dinner, and Anabelle brought a plate to me in bed.

“It must seem like life will never be the same again,” I said. “But when I’m finished with treatment, I’ll be able to cook again and take care of things.”

“Mhm,” she said curtly.

And so went my every attempt over the next few weeks to initiate a dialog.

Me: “You can talk to me, you know.”
Anabelle: “I know. I’m fine.”

Me: “Having a parent with cancer is a lot for a child to handle.”
Anabelle: “I’m fine.”

Me: “What can I do to help you?”
Anabelle: “Nothing. I’m fine. Can you take me to Anna’s now?”

Me:  “Give me something. Anything.”
Anabelle: “I’m fine.”
Me: “OK, then go clean your room.”

I’d discovered something surprising. Anabelle isn’t who I thought she was. I didn’t know her. I’d been distracted by her constant chatter, fooled into believing she is an open book. How hadn’t I noticed the armor she wears to guard her emotions? I worried that if she didn’t discuss her feelings she’d be stuck with them forever.

Around this time, I began blogging about my cancer exploits. Writing was healing, and the feedback and encouragement from my readers so uplifting. I wished Anabelle could experience the catharsis of letting it out and letting go.

Then one afternoon, I spied Anabelle staring intently at the computer. I snuck up behind her and squinted at the monitor. On the screen were my words.

“That’s my blog,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s the latest one.”

“How’d you find it?” I asked dumbfounded.

“I go online, Mom,” she said (duh!). “I’ve read them all. They’re good.”

A wave of pride and relief washed over me. Anabelle wasn’t in denial (though I’ve since determined denial can be an excellent coping strategy). In her own way, Anabelle was dealing. And she really was fine.