How My Kids Got Me Through Cancer

By Megan

From The Occasional Hot Flash

When I told my 24-year-old son I had cancer, he said, "I know just how you feel. I've imagined getting it for years." And the thing is, I think he did know just how I felt. I'd imagined getting it for years too, and it was pretty much how I'd thought it would be.
 
When I told my 15-year-old daughter I had cancer, her response was similar — but different. "I know I'll get it too," she said. (That's not necessarily true, but she's right that her statistical risk is higher as a result of my diagnosis.)
 
I hated being the reason my son now had the real thing to feed his fantasies and my daughter lived with a sense of impending doom. When I spoke to my social worker at the cancer clinic about how to mitigate the curse I had brought into my family, she suggested 1) I take them with me to chemo and 2) I figure out ways for them to help me.
 
Taking the kids to chemo was a great idea. My kids were born more than 9 years apart, and over the years there have been few activities we could enjoy as a family. Who could have predicted that chemo would be one of them? They met my favorite chemo nurse, watched TV with me, fetched sandwiches from the deli, spent an hour with the social worker. (I have no idea what they talked about, but they seemed to enjoy it.) I look back on most of my chemo sessions with distaste, but my memory of the day my kids came to chemo is a fond one.
 
Asking them for help was harder. I didn't want to burden them. My son had a demanding job, and my daughter was a sophomore at Homework Hell High School. But over my year and a half of treatment, they ended up helping me in many ways, mostly just by hanging out with me. However, each of them also gave me a particular gift that reflected their unique talents.
 
I was instructed to inject myself with Neulasta the day after every chemo infusion. The prospect alarmed me. Each preloaded hypodermic cost thousands of dollars, and I was afraid I'd bungle it and waste one. My son volunteered that since he'd injected fluids into his cat, he felt confident to inject me with Neulasta. Every other Friday during his lunch break, he stopped by to give me my shot. Nary a one was wasted.
 
Teenage girls seem to be hardwired with beauty know-how. My daughter was no exception. My fingernails and toenails were buried in callus and cuticle when they grew back after falling out during chemo. My feet, in particular, were an embarrassment. One day my daughter sat me down and spent an hour and a half digging out my nails and polishing them. Later I showed them to a podiatrist, who proclaimed my daughter's work "professional quality." She continued to maintain my feet until she went off to college.
 
I'm sure there are ways I could have handled my children more adeptly. But I can't think of a way they could have handled my cancer with greater kindness. Here are the lessons they taught me on how to care for ailing loved ones: 1) Show up, and 2) do for them whatever it is you do best.
 
Other readers would love to hear how you helped your kids through your cancer treatment. Please post a comment sharing your experience.

Posted July 5, 2011.