How do I tell my children?

How do you break scary news to your child? The answer is as unique as the individual who's struggling with the answer. I'm not an expert, but I am a mom, and I take my responsibility to protect my child extremely seriously.

Today I want to talk to you about how I chose to break the news of my medical treatment to my son. I'll also walk you through some of the things I think you should consider as you decide what's right for you and your family. Again - not from a place of educational expertise - but from my own experience.

First off, YOU decide what is right for your family. You and you alone. You'll hear this many times as you're going through treatment for DCIS, but almost everything about this is a highly personal decision dependent upon many unique factors. You get to decide what's right here too.

Here is what was right for me.

I told my 12-year-old son about my DCIS and treatment right before I went to the hospital for an overnight stay with my mastectomy. I made it through the initial scare, the mammogram, the doctor appointments, the lumpectomy surgery and the wait for the surgery date to roll around, before he even knew what was happening. I felt it was just too much for him to bear, for those first few months. I simply didn't want him to worry.

When I went in for the lumpectomy we were able to drop him off at school and go straight to the outpatient surgery center for my surgery. I told him I was going to the doctor. When he got home from school that day, I was at home sitting in the recliner - as I usually am - and he had no idea that I had surgery that day. I told him I didn't go to work that day. No big deal at all.

I dealt with some super heavy days before my son even knew what was going on. For me, it was important not to disrupt his routine or his feelings until I had the facts. I was worrying non-stop, and I didn't want to put that burden on my child. School was in session at the time, and I couldn't see any good reason to tell him right away. So, I waited.

I knew I'd have to have help from family members when I was at the hospital for my mastectomy, and so I knew it was the right time to talk with him about it. The conversation went extremely well. He was in his room and I talked with him. I told him that I had seen my doctor and had some tests done, and that my doctor had suggested surgery because some of my results showed that I needed it. He followed me, so far.

I asked him if he knew what cancer is, and he said he did. He had learned that it's when cells in our bodies are defective and grow into something bad. I asked him if he knew what the pink ribbons stood for related to cancer, and he did - breast cancer. I also asked him if he had ever had any friends whose moms had breast cancer before. Again, he did. We talked about them. I told him that is what I would be having surgery for, and that my doctors were going to take care of me. We talked a little about the surgery and how I'd be spending one night in the hospital to make sure I was OK after the surgery. He was totally fine with the plan of staying with a family member. He did ask if he could go to the surgery too instead of school, and I told him that I was only allowed to bring one adult to drive me home, and that I didn't want him to miss school. He was OK with it after we talked it through. I could tell he was worried about me, but the words I used weren't too scary or overwhelming. And I truly felt confident that my decisions and my doctors' recommendations were the right steps for me. I also told him that I'd be staying home from work for a few weeks after my surgery to recover. Some of my recovery was during the summer and he was glad that I would be home.

My son came to visit me in the hospital the next day after my surgery. He brought me a teddy bear, a balloon and red roses. I was so happy when he walked in with those that day. I am sure I looked a bit scary with a hospital gown, drain tubes, pain pumps and IV. I didn't show him the bandages or anything like that, but I did show him the binder I was wearing. He was curious about it all, but he didn't seem to be freaked out. I put on my best face and attitude while he was there. And I told him I should be able to come home the next day. Luckily, I was able to.

He was very helpful throughout my recovery. Also quite protective and wanted to know when I'd be seeing the doctors. I had two follow-up surgeries after my mastectomy, and I told him about those. I tried to use what I was going through as educational opportunities. Doctors help us. I counted my needle sticks throughout - I think I was at 17 when it came time for his next round of immunizations - and I told him what I did when I'd get an IV or injection of saline. It was good to relate my experience to his.

I'm really pleased with the way we discussed things at my house. I know that this isn't a one-size-fits-all approach, but I hope my experience can help guide you as you figure out what is right for you. :)

Twelve Years

I can't count the number of times I was told how fast time flies for a parent. I heard it many times. Each time I was focused on the moment and didn't care to consider beyond it. No doubt I was rushing around to keep up with my schedule or worrying about the ups and downs of life. And I was remembering how long it took for me to graduate high school and finish college. Perspective is certainly dependent upon age. In 2003 it certainly didn't seem like time was quickly passing, as a tiny baby boy was in my arms. 

Now here we are - 12 years later. Twelve. If I hadn't been there for every moment of it, I simply would refuse to believe it.

Twelve years ago at this very hour - 11 p.m., I was just arriving at the hospital in Northwest Arkansas. The arrival of my one-week-past-due baby boy came without any fear or fire drills. The signs that he was coming came very calmly while I was in the restroom peacefully at home. I could not have planned it any better. In my estimation it would have happened at an embarrassing moment. While I was at work perhaps or in the car. There was certainly no need for the plastic shower curtain I had been sleeping on top of, strategically placed underneath my bed sheets. Thankfully. I was terrified that I would be speeding to a medical facility in extreme pain, panic and terror. Fueled by dramatic television portrayals of how it happens, I had convinced myself of the worst possible scenarios when I imagined the day. Thank goodness that was not the case.

No, in fact, it couldn't have been a calmer arrival. I called my doctor to ask if I should come in. My water had broken but nothing felt any different. Nothing was really happening. I wondered - and even asked - if I could just sleep at home and come in when it was closer to time. The medical professional told me it was best to come in. So I did. 

I calmly got there. Checked in. Got to a room, still calm, and still not sure it was even time to be there. I spent the night of January 13, 2003 in the hospital room where I would meet my baby boy the next day. Waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Too nervous to sleep. With the help of some medical and pharmaceutical support, I became a mom the next morning. 

It blows my mind that earning the title of "mom" requires no qualifications or prerequisites. Sure, you have doctors and nurses who make a few fast suggestions before they send you off on your way to figure out how to care for a child back at home. But when it really comes down to it, you're on your own. I have learned every single day. And I continue to learn. I am in no way perfect, but I trust that I am perfect for my son. I believe that God's plan is a perfect one. I trust that He knows exactly what He is doing. I've been a single mother for all but those first 5 months of my son's life. That didn't feel perfect when I was living it. That certainly wasn't how I pictured things. Though painful, it was absolutely the plan. Better things were coming. A happiness that I hadn't even considered was possible. And it was coming, years down the road. And I would be a better mom if I was on my own. In fact, I am.

Now I can see that I trained for this role my entire life. God gave my son one of the bossiest and most independent moms in the entire world. One who could handle the path. Shakily at first, but eventually with confidence and certainty. I was made for this. Was it easy? No way. I definitely could not have done it without the support of my family that first year. But I did it.

I often have said out loud that every year of motherhood is better than the previous one. First you have a baby. That's cool. But then all these awesome milestones start to happen. Then words. And sentences. And questions. And conversations. And before you know it there's school. And activities. And martial arts. And band. As we approach the teenage years I hope the trend continues. May I always find more joy and appreciation year after year. 

Just as I felt 12 years ago, I don't feel prepared to raise a teenager.  But I am certainly up for the challenge of figuring it out. Bring. It. On.

I get six more years to figure out how to prepare a young man to be his best self in this great big world. Only six more years before college, career and hopefully adventures and a wonderful life of his own. But the world isn't easy, or fair. I pray that I'll be guided to make the right decisions along the way as I help him be the very best grown-up that I possibly can.

Happy birthday to my sweet, sweet T. I love your laugh, your blue eyes, your quick-witted sense of humor and tendencies to start random collections. Your appreciation of music, movies, television and technology makes my heart smile. I love how you value family. I love your ability to adapt and see the possibilities ahead. I love you, baby boy of mine. Happy 12th birthday. 

Love, 

Mom