Your Children Must Be Scared

There was a lot of cancer talk.

I made a new friend who I instantly liked and we talked all things cancer. Her diagnosis, my diagnosis. Her treatment plan, my treatment plan. I got some great tips, learnt a few (more) things I didn’t know, and walked away feeling stronger. I went home and made notes: get the name of the nail stuff that helps stop your nails from falling out, look for ginger lollies, mouthwash. I emailed the cancer nurse and read over my oncology notes before rushing out the door to meet up with friends I hadn’t seen since I left in June.

Over lunch we talked cancer again. A friend had been there, done that. We compared stages, types and cycles before I retold the story of the past month. There were giggles, numerous inappropriate jokes, and sincere questions over children and what needed to happen next. Good friends.

The supermarket was an afterthought. I ran in, found the right aisle and did the price check between Rexona and Dove. When she asked if I was the lady with the blog who had cancer I hesitated, I mean, there’s a lot more than one, maybe she didn’t mean me. She didn’t seem to know my name. My children, how old were they? They must be scared. The universe was surely trying to tell me something. It was a great opportunity to listen.

I thanked her. I have no idea why, I think possibly just to get away, but I thanked her? I went through the motions: school pick up, the corner store, the re-cap of the day. I was quietly seething. My children, that’s my children your talking about lady who doesn’t know my name.  What’s the universe trying to tell me? That it’s my turn? That sometimes the universe is an arse? That life is complicated and messy and full of shit that we all have to somehow learn how to deal with?

When G came home the day was discussed over a beer. Ms 13 sat nearby with headphones and an episode of Pretty Little Liars. I told him of all the new things I’d learnt. I could lose my fingernails. I would possibly lose all taste for coffee, wine, and bubbles. The steroids may have me sleepless, I could blow up like a balloon.

When it came time for kisses goodnight Ms 13 asked me to crawl into bed with her. We spooned, went through the pics on her wall and I stroked her back. “Mum, you know your story will be your story, what happens to everyone else is their story. I’ve heard you say that. You don’t know what’s going to happen to you until it happens. Maybe some of the things that happened to other people won’t happen to you – you don’t know yet. ”

I kissed her cheek, squeezed her with both hands firmly wrapped around her waist. “You’re a clever girl. When did you get so clever?”

We said our mantra, our every night goodnight.

“Love you”

“Love you more”

“Impossible”

“Possible”

I listened to her breathing change and crawled out of the bed. Your children must be scared. Maybe. I know I am. But we’re going to be okay, this is our story, no-one else’s.

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Comments

  1. What about shellac Jenni, or does that make it worse?

    • Jenni from styling curvy says

      Not sure Kirsty, I steered clear of nail bars as I couldn’t risk getting an infection.

      • Janet Richards says

        I am certainly no expert but maybe with all the buffing involved the nails would get thinner after shellac removal?
        My great niece, now aged 23 has Cystic Fibrosis and she has an occasional blog called ‘Live your Life’ which I think says it all xxx

  2. I had a woman say to me just before I went for chemo “you realise your hair will fall out don’t you” to which I replied, “yes and I’m fine with that because the alternative is that I die!” I couldn’t believe that she thought that would be a helpful or comforting comment to make!
    You just have to take each day as it comes. Some days I felt fine…others not so much. But I stayed positive, kept my sense of humour, focused on getting better and ignored people who made senseless comments…and that included the nurse who when I grimaced after his 3rd failed attempt to find a vein for a blood test said “it’s only a small needle, how painful can it be?!”

  3. You’ve got a very clever girl, indeed, Kirsty.
    (Which is another way of saying you’re doing an amazing job!)

    I’m afraid you will witness many idiotic, random statements in the next couple of months. Some will be from strangers, some from people who love you.

    Regardless, they will all usually come from a good place — people feel bad, they feel awkward, they have no idea what to say, they try to express some sympathy, but, not having been there (or not knowing you), they have no clue what might be helpful to YOU and proceed to put foot in mouth.

    Another subset of comments comes from fear — cancer is a scary f@&*% thing that hits so f@&*% randomly. But if the universe controls it (if the universe is trying to tell us something through it, or if it happens for a reason, or whatever) then it’s not so random any more. It’s controlled, it’s part of some grand plan, or or it’s predictable, or whatnot, so it’s automatically less scary. People probably don’t realize it, but when they offer such pearls of wisdom, it’s to appease themselves, not you. It’s to make THEIR world a less scary place. People tend to do this with every icky aspect of life — be it illness or death or grief — they try to take some messy, sticky, tangly situation and tie its ends neatly into a pretty bow. If only….

    Regardless of people’s intentions, you are, of course, both welcome and required to seethe over their stupidity: it can be a source of infinite entertainment, plus a useful distraction from the god-awful lot you’ve stumbled upon.
    Plus, you know that anger phase in the stages of grief? What better way to realize it than by railing against the idiots who insult you?!

    As for stories, Ms 13 is absolutely right — yours has not been written yet. But this — I presume — is one of those stories that can be transformative. Kind of like labor and birth, perhaps: it’s a Big Deal, but we have no idea what awaits us, as no two stories can ever be alike. Yet we often listen to others’ stories while we anticipate D-Day. To find ways to cope, to build some sort of meditative framework that might help us pull us through when the going gets tough, to connect us to others that have gone through something similar (though ultimately different.) When I was expecting my first child, I listened to all sorts of birth stories. And while I did, in response, buy some hemorrhoid cream and a donut pillow, that was hardly the point of the stories…

    Much love to you and the family,
    from someone who is probably already unknowingly eating her foot (and apologizes!)

  4. Kate Veale says

    My amazing mum was diagnosed with breast cancer when 14. Was I scared? Maybe a little, but mostly was focused on how her being ill impacted my life. I had to leave her and move in with my Dad while she was receiving and undergoing radiotherapy. I was very unhappy because she was my world, but my adolescent brain never entertained the option of losing her. That’s my story. Your kids have each other and G and you, which is fantastic. Thank you again for sharing your story with us.

    • I couldn’t agree more with this comment Kate. Thank you so much for writing it. For my guys it’s more about “but will you still be able to…” which is completely understandable. I have said right from the start “I’m not going to die, you know that, I’m one of the lucky ones, I am not going to die – but treatment is going to be tough and I’m going to be bald and sick and there’s going to be times where it isn’t going to be pretty – but I promise you, I’m not going anywhere”.

  5. I love your strength Kirsty, onward and upward xx

  6. I don’t really know what to say. It’s true though, this is indeed your story.

  7. Oh my dear that is a good way of thinking – I’m going to adopt that, our story is our story and we don’t know how it will unfurl just that it is as unique as we are

  8. sundaebean says

    Your daughter is wise. Wonder where she gets that? 😉

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