Telling the kids

Michael and I were confused about when to tell the kids. They’ve been at camp just about the whole time from lump discovery to diagnosis. And they will be at camp for the next three days. Yesterday was parents’ day. Do we go and not tell them (which felt like it would require some pretty significant lying)? Do we go and tell them (and then leave again)? Do we not go?

Then we did the organizing.  Aidan would come home on Wednesday, flying from Auckland to Wellington. But if we get good news from the MRI today, I would be flying from Wellington to Auckland at that same time for my surgery. This does not seem a winning combination.

And so we told them. We actually roleplayed the conversation some in the drive down (we are consultants after all). We found a sign to a look out just near the turn off to their camp, so we figured we would have a beautiful setting. We had a contingency plan in case they got really upset and wanted to leave camp. We informed the camp parents about my diagnosis and our plan to tell them, and we whisked them all away.

Lest you be picturing my two blonde kids in the car, you’ll have to broaden. Into the back seat we squished not only our two blonde kids, but also our two nearly-kids—Ayla and Silke. They were at camp too, and we couldn’t tell our kids without telling these girls. So we piled them in the car and drove the short distance to the lookout.

Which turned out to be a carpark next to the road. Really. We stopped there and the kids said, “What are we doing?” and I said, “This was supposed to be beautiful.”

“This is not beautiful at all,” they informed me. I said I had noticed that too, but it was too late. I took off my seatbelt and turned around. (Note that in the role play, we had decided that the ideal location was someplace beautiful—not hard to do in NZ—and with a round table that held us all. Note too that you don't always get what you want. First exhibit, cancer.)

“I have something to tell you, and I just want to let you know here while we’re away from people and give you a chance to ask any questions and then we’ll go to lunch,” I told them.

“Did Perry die?” Aidan asked, upset. (Perry is our 10-year-old dog, a cancer survivor himself, who mistakes himself for a puppy.) No.  Perry was fine. No one had died.

“Oh, no, are you pregnant?” Aidan asked. “I am not excited about a little brother or sister.” No. Not pregnant. But it was a health thing, I told them, and I talked about the cancer.

Naomi had a series of questions about health and survivability, about what that meant for her since breast cancer is partially hereditary, about whether I’d wear a wig or what. Aidan high fived me for being about to be a cancer survivor (like Perry and other cool people). Silke asked about whether I would lose my breast. (Both girls were excited at the idea of a breast reconstruction that took tissue and fat from my belly to rebuild my boob—a twofer.) And then, after about five minutes, when they were convinced that the cancer would neither kill me nor inconvenience them too much, the cancer became old news and they started to chatter about camp intrigue. We went to lunch.

Over the course of the next hours, one kid or the other would go quiet for a little while and we’d hold them and love them. Why would we be surprised that this is a roller coaster for them too? Michael and I spent Saturday night’s dinner choking back tears and forcing down food. Sunday night’s dinner we ordered heaps of food and Michael made me laugh so hard I nearly choked. Same cancer, same fears, different moment on the spin cycle.

Today is the MRI, another moment on the spin cycle. One foot in front of the other. I was up much of the night, thinking about the things to be done, wondering when I would get better at quieting my mind, worrying about all of it. I fell back asleep at 5 and then woke at 5.30 from the second of two vivid dreams. In the first, I was trying to teach a workshop but I kept forgetting things and having to go after them (this is a totally standard dream for me) and people I hadn’t seen in years kept walking into the room in tears to give me hugs (this is the unusual part).  The plans kept shifting for the workshop, and the waiters would put down food and then take it away before we could eat it, and they would change all the furniture in rooms as we were trying to use it.

The second dream was worse. I was in a pool with a life jacket on, splashing and playing and having fun in the water. I began to backstroke though the water, loving the feel of the water on my arms and legs. I took full breaths and zoomed fast, fast across the pool.

Then suddenly I realised that I had been swimming underwater this whole time, and taking gulps of water instead of breaths of air. I thought it would be impossible because my life jacket was on, but then I realised that the life jacket was water logged and keeping me down. I tried to stand up, tried to not breathe the water, but it was too hard—I was too heavy and tired and stuck under the surface. I could hear people’s voices through the water. They were yelling and upset and trying to get to me but somehow they couldn’t. Michael’s voice was frantic. I looked up at the sun through the water and knew i would die.

And then i woke up. Hard to interpret that dream, eh? (Ironically, I woke up very thirsty and at 5.50, 20 minutes after I was allowed to eat or drink anything…)

            So, it’s up and down. And my subconscious has gotten involved too. Now for the MRI—the fun never ends.