The Talk That Never Ends

Telling our children Daddy had cancer was one conversation. Helping them understand what came next took hundreds more.

Two conversations stay with me most: the first time we told our girls that Daddy had cancer, and the day I had to tell them he was going to die.

But so much of parenting through his illness happened in between.

What is that tube for? Why does Daddy have drains coming out of his belly? What surgery is he having? When is he coming home?

Is Daddy going to be okay?

Each question needed an answer they could understand. And I was trying to find those answers while carrying my own fear about what was happening to my husband.

The first conversation

Our girls were 1, 4, and 7 when my husband was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. It was April 2020. Schools had closed, the world was shutting down, and now we had to explain cancer to our children.

I reached out to our school counselor, who connected us with professionals experienced in helping children through a parent’s serious illness. In that first meeting, I received advice that stayed with me throughout his illness: never lie to your kids.

I wanted to be honest. I also wanted to protect them from being scared.

Our counselors helped me find language that could do both. Instead of saying, “Daddy is going to be okay,” we said, “Mommy and the doctors are doing everything we can to help Daddy get better.”

That difference mattered. I couldn’t promise that he would get better, no matter how badly I wanted to. I could tell them what we were doing to help him.

We didn’t have to explain the entire future in that first conversation. We didn’t know it ourselves.

They were growing up while we were going through it

These conversations continued over roughly four and a half years. Our children’s understanding changed as they grew.

Our youngest was only a toddler at the beginning. Our older girls were moving through their own developmental stages. With each developmental leap came a different ability to understand what was happening—and sometimes new questions about things we had already discussed.

An explanation that had been enough earlier might need to be revisited.

Our counselors helped us understand those developmental stages and consider what each girl could take in. We tried to keep the information simple, and let them lead the conversation.

One question at a time

I tried to give them information in small pieces and let their questions lead.

Sometimes the question was about something they could see.

When my husband came home with a chemotherapy pump, the girls were nervous about sitting on his lap. They didn’t want to hurt him or pull something out. We talked about what the tubing was for and how they could still be close to Daddy.

Then there were surgeries, drains, and changes in what Daddy could physically do. There was always something new to explain.

I tried to answer the question they were asking without giving them every medical detail I had in my head. I showed them pictures when that helped. I left room for them to ask more.

Sometimes they needed to understand a procedure. Sometimes they just wanted to know when he would be home.

Those questions mattered just as much. They were missing their dad.

Before one hospital visit, I wrote an update asking for prayers because the girls were struggling with us being away and missing bedtime snuggles. The next evening, I wrote that we had both made it home in time for bedtime.

That was their experience of his illness, too: who was home, who was gone, and whether Daddy could be with them.

After the conversation, I kept thinking

Even when a conversation seemed to go well, I would lie awake worrying.

Had I explained it clearly? Had I said too much? Had I made something sound scarier than it needed to be?

I prayed that I was giving them enough information to understand without leaving them frightened for years to come.

The responsibility felt enormous. I wanted to be a steady person they could come to, but I was scared myself.

I was also helping my husband and our loved ones understand the medical information. Being an ICU nurse helped me explain treatments and procedures. It didn’t give me certainty about what would happen next or make it easy to find the words for my own children.

Our counselors helped carry that with us. They supported me in these conversations and helped the girls recognize and express their “big feelings.”

I needed that support. I didn’t have all the answers.

The conversation I had hoped we wouldn’t need

For years, we could talk about what the doctors were trying next.

Eventually, that changed.

My husband was too sick to participate when it was time to tell the girls he was going to die. Our counselors helped me prepare age-appropriate words for each of them.

I went for a walk alone, trying to gather myself. When I turned around, my oldest daughter had followed me.

We sat on the curb. I explained that the doctors had done everything they could to help Daddy get better, but God was calling him home.

The promise I had made at the beginning—that we would do everything we could—was still true. But what I now had to tell her was heartbreaking.

I see what these conversations take

If you are helping your children understand a parent’s illness, I see the work that happens around every conversation.

The thought you put into choosing your words. The questions you answer while carrying your own fear. The hours afterward wondering whether you got it right.

And while you’re carrying all of that, there are still appointments to coordinate, medical records to organize, and insurance questions to untangle.

That is where Back Pocket Caregiver can help. I can take some of that practical work off your shoulders, giving you more time and energy for your family.

Telling the kids is not one conversation. It is a hundred small ones.

I can’t have those conversations for you. But I can help lighten what you’re carrying around them, so you have more of yourself left for the people you love.