Shut Up and Deal: Coda

My mom called tearily after reading Shut Up and Deal: Part 1. She was saddened by what I had gone through, unbeknownst to her at the time, and expressed guilt for not being more attentive to my teenage struggles. Yeah, Mom, I know you were in the hospital undergoing chemo, demolished by a radical double mastectomy, wondering how far the cancer had reached, pondering your own death, but try not to be so selfish, huh?

"Besides," I had to remind her, "your mother had died from breast cancer like two years earlier. How could you muster the hope and energy to soothe us? You must have been terrified."

It was different for me, having adolescent kids the second time I had cancer. I knew I could survive, and likely would. I'd been through it before, and had my long-surviving mother as additional evidence that this cancer was nothing but a thing. I could talk more reassuringly about the situation, and hopefully remove some of the fear and sense of doom that had haunted me. I tried to approach the kids with openness and acceptance: Your feelings are welcome here, no matter how scary or dark or rough. Bring it all, we can handle it.

After attempting to absolve my mother's recent guilt, I stumbled into a related conversation with my daughter, Tess. Partly inspired by her friend Becca, whose mother is battling advanced cancer, I spoke a little of the talk with my mom, reflecting on how hard it is to deal with all our complicated feelings, especially when the person we may want to talk to the most is the patient and we don't want to burden her.

"That's how it was for me," Tess admitted. "Right after you told us, I went to my room and cried. I didn't want to cry in front of you."

My belly fluttered. I wanted so much to make it okay for my kids to feel whatever they needed to, to find outlets for those rough emotions, to feel supported and heard. Had I failed my daughter?

I fight that line of thinking. Parenting is less about failure (or the alternative passing with flying colors, when does that ever happen?) and more about degrees of mistakes and the steps we take to make amends. Lose my temper, approach again more softly. Blame too quickly, heap appropriate praise. Say the wrong thing, say it again with better words. Try to make it right when I screw up, which I have many times, and will again and again.

How can I make something right from almost three years ago? Cancer is not a current threat in our home. I can't replay it, life has moved on. I have to find new ways to make rough, complicated feelings welcome in my presence. I try to pay closer attention to signs that there are topics that need addressing, dark emotions that need light and air. I work to make shutting up the path least taken for both my kids and myself. And for others.

Becca was due to come over yesterday, so I prepared a gift for her. At my post-treatment celebration, my friend Dana gave me a necklace with a shiny gold circle stamped with F.U. Cancer. It was late in the evening, fueled by wine and dance music, and we gathered in an enthusiastic circle yelling those words repeatedly (un-abbreviated for more emphasis), waking Tess with our chant of triumph. I wear the necklace rarely now, partly due to the risk of offending with crass language, and partly because I don't want the word CANCER hanging around my neck. I don't need a totem to channel my anger anymore, I'm working it through and dealing on my own.

But maybe Becca could use it. Maybe she is struggling to find an outlet, to voice her many dark thoughts and emotions, to feel heard and supported. I advised Tess on what to say when giving her the necklace, fearing if I gave it I would cry and make the moment about me and my emotions. Tell her it's okay to be angry, to feel whatever she needs to. Tell her we get it and welcome whatever she needs to be or say or do. Tell her we're here.

Later, when I passed through the room where the girls were laughing, Becca hopped over the couch to thank me, enveloping me in strong hug. It felt like a step in making things right.