The truth hurts

On Coping #2

About three weeks after the first visit to the colorectal surgeon, we have to say something to the kids.

.

We go back and forth.

Do we tell them?

We have to.

What do we tell them?

Mummy has cancer.

And when they ask what that means?

Mummy’s body isn’t behaving as it should.

And when they ask what that means?

Well, it means mummy’s body isn’t fighting the bad cells properly and they’re getting bigger and spreading to other parts of her body.

And that’s bad?

Yes, that’s bad.

Could you die mummy?

.

And that’s as far as we get.

Over and over again.

For three long weeks.

Until eventually it can wait no longer.

And the question boils down not to

‘do we tell them’

or even

‘what do we tell them’.

But to how we answer that one question.

.

Eventually, on the 9th April 2022 at about three o’clock in the afternoon, we ask our three children - then aged 7, 7 and 9 - to come and sit on the sofa because we have something to tell them.

The sofa itself is lovely, by the way.

After 7 years cramming ourselves onto a two-seater it actually has space for five.

It is teal.

My wife’s favorite colour.

The dog is not allowed on it.

(Although 18 months later that rule would be worn down as many other boundaries similarly crumble under the weight of recalibrated expectations and emotional allowances).

The sofa even has a name.

Given to it by the company that made it.

It is called the Orson sofa.

Which we love.

Because that is also the name of our 7-year-old son.

It was supposed to house memories of movies watched huddled together.

Now it is the site of a bombshell.

We decide on the truth.

Mummy has cancer.

Yes, that is bad.

And yes, she could die.

There is no going back.

They now know everything that we know.

.

And they are heart-broken.

And hurting.

And scared.

.

One has tearful questions.

One hugs her, weeping.

One wails. And wails. And wails.

.

Head.

Heart.

Soul.

.

The truth hurts them.

And that is almost unbearable.

.

Finally, they are cried out.

“Shall we go and bounce on the trampoline for a bit?” we say.

“Yeah, okay.”

.

And so we do.

We bounce on the trampoline for a bit.

.

And afterwards,

it is a tiny bit better.

Previous > On Coping #1: The world keeps turning | Next > On Coping #3: A plan helps

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On Coping is my story of surviving on the sidelines of cancer. It begins in 2022 with On Coping #1, written the day after my 41st birthday. The day my wife Imogen, the mother of my three children, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.  It’s the story of what happened next. Read from the start.

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