To share or not to share? That is the question parents face any time there’s news in the family, good or bad. Some believe that honesty is always the best policy. Others, like me, think it depends on a host of factors: the kids’ ages, how long-term the problem is, and whether it's more beneficial or more harmful for them to know all the details.
My kids were 1, 3, 5 and 7 years old when I had a preventative double mastectomy. I was 34 and opted for the procedure to avoid getting the breast cancer that killed my mother and her mother in their 40s. I’d also recently learned that I was a BRCA1 carrier, which gave me an even higher chance of being diagnosed. The nine-hour surgery, which included a reconstruction from my stomach fat and muscle, would require a four-night hospital stay and a lengthy home recovery. All my kids knew about my breasts at that point was that they were a 24-hour diner for infants.
I decided on this explanation: “Mommy is going to have an operation on her tummy so she can stay healthy.”
Their aunts, uncles and my in-laws, along with my friends, would step in to take care of them until I was back on my feet. “And when I come home, I’ll be sitting in a special chair until I’m better and you guys can take rides on it with me!” I was referring to the La-Z-Boy I’d live in until my body could straighten out in a bed. My kids had no follow up questions other than, “Will Grandma make us meatballs and spaghetti?”
Well, that was easy, I thought.
Soon after my return home, my surgeon called with shocking news: My pathology showed cancer in one breast. A subsequent node dissection revealed micro metastases in one node — cancer so tiny it was visible only under a microscope — and I was advised to undergo eight rounds of preventative chemotherapy.
The aim of the chemo wasn’t to shrink a tumor; it was to be sure that no invisible cancer cells remained in my body. But the side effects, such as hair loss, would be unavoidable.
So … to tell or not to tell my kids that I was getting cancer treatment? Booksellers are well-stocked with titles advising parents on how to talk to kids about illness. But I wasn’t sick. The disease had been removed from me and now I had to undergo treatment that would make me look and feel sick.
My diagnosis knocked me for a loop, especially given my years of practicing prevention. My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was 18 and there are moments of her suffering that I wish I could unsee. Now here I was with the opportunity to shield my kids from the awfulness of cancer. It would require 24/7 vigilance on my part, but it would be worth it. How was I going to hide my baldness and lack of eyebrows from them? I’d figure it out, but I was 100% sure that my ordeal would be a million times harder if I had to carry their fears and worries alongside my own.
My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was 18 and there are moments of her suffering that I wish I could unsee. Now here I was with the opportunity to shield my kids from the awfulness of cancer.
For me, the best way to get through it and stay sane was to maintain normalcy at home. There would be no scans or results to wait for, nothing to brace my kids for, so I was happy to spare them any unnecessary worry and trauma. I was determined to put on a show — the “business as usual” show — and concoct all sorts of stories about why I now slept in a beanie and always wore a cap or scarf over my “hair” (I did that to hide the unnatural hairline of my wig).
My family was supportive and took great care to never mention cancer or ask me how I was doing in front of the kids. The same went for their teachers and school administrators. My close friends were also fiercely protective of my mission and when they gave my kids rides or had them over, would glare at anyone who so much as asked “So how’s Gila doing?” in front of my kids, cutting them off before they had the chance to press further.
By some miracle, my kids never once asked me why I suddenly wore hats all the time. They didn’t seem to notice my thinning eyelashes or eyebrows either, never found the wig I’d stuff far back in my closet each night. All they noticed was their mom giving them a bath (in a hat), reading to them at bedtime (also in a hat) and dancing around the kitchen to “Blue’s Clues” songs (sometimes in a large head wrap).
My deep belief was that if I could fool my kids and avoid the inevitable barrage of questions that would come if they knew, I could almost fool myself into believing that the nightmare I was living through wasn’t real.
Breast cancer prevention advocacy became a priority for me immediately after I lost my mom. As my kids grew up, they heard me talking passionately about the disease all the time. I eventually told them about my preventative mastectomy and how the grandmother they never met was the reason for my decision. I wanted to tell them about the cancer part too, but it never seemed to be the right time.
Ten years after I finished treatment, I was invited to speak at a breast cancer benefit, which would require me to be away from home for a few days. My kids were then 10, 12, 14 and 16. Before I flew, I pulled each of them aside, individually, and told them everything. Enough time had passed that I could share from a place of safety when the danger was well behind me. There were hugs and tears, but their unanimous response — “Mom, we are so proud of you!” — was what really got me choked up and gave me the validation I didn’t even know I needed.
