The Hardest Thing I've Ever Done

I've just done the most difficult thing I've ever had to do.

How do you tell you children you have cancer?

Constant Reader, this blog has been all about me. It's focused on my experiences, thoughts, feelings, and neuroses. This post will be little different—I can't change canoes mid-stream. But it's not merely about me. It's about them.

And they are what matters.

I've asked myself time and again why I've been expending my limited time and my energies writing this blog. I know that in part, it's outreach—it enables me to bring my world closer. My relationships are a diaspora, scattered over time and distance. Writing connects me.

I also know this blog is what's holding me together. It focuses me. It forces me to organize my thoughts, my notes, my emotions, my...everything. Writing it helps me to see my path, make sense of it, and cope with it. You may or may not believe this, but it gets me out of my head. (cue laughter) When I write I'm both thinking and feeling, but not feeling so much as thinking. I'm sorting and planning, as opposed to fretting. Writing helps me manage the noise, So I can analyze the signal with cold calculation. It's cleansing.

I'm also paying it forward, servicing an audience I don't know and may never meet. I've written before that if this helps someone somewhere in some time of need, then it is good. It has value. It is something more than the sum of its bytes.

All of this is true, and all of it is a lie.

You see, something hit me today. It was a moment of absolute clarity that smacked me across the face with a cold brick. It mortified me. It was one of those times when you realize how mind-numbingly stupid you have been.

The truest truth is this...
I'm not writing this blog for me.
I'm not writing it for you.
I'm writing it for them.
It's for my daughters.

And in that moment, it all made sense.

I'm writing all of this to give their future selves insight into their father. It's a queer gift, I know. But some day they will be adults. Some day they'll be ready. And when they are, my past self will be there for them—warts and all. And they will get a truer sense of me than any story I—or you—could tell.

Knowing this matters, and I'm comforted by my sense of purpose.

But knowing this still doesn't answer my question: how do you tell you children you have cancer?

I've had to lie. I've had to act. I've had to avoid questions and sidestep answers. I've had to be up when I was down, and be on when I was (most certainly) off. These 50-odd days have tested me in uncounted and untold ways, but no challenges have been more difficult than those challenging my Daddyhood.

Daddyhood

I need to go back many years—before BCB and I married. By happy accident we were living in Annapolis in a tumbling-down farmhouse on a magnificent spread of land. The epic porch overlooked the Severn River and the Naval Academy. Sunsets delighted us, just over the left-hand treeline, and twinkling lights glided across our central view, as myriad boats plyed the river after dusk. It was poetic and romantic in a way that never happens in real life—yet it was our life...and how I do remember it...

One afternoon, evening, night BCB and I had The Talk. You know the one: "what are you (am I) going to do with your (my) life?" I had reached a critical fork in my road. Two clear paths stretched before me. Down one, I would become a professional chef—following my passion for cooking to its logical conclusion. Down another, I would become a lawyer—following the money, tapping my intellect and competitive nature to enrich us. Two logical choices—perfectly grokable by anyone who knew me.

Yet, as we talked, a third path quietly asserted itself. In many ways, it was the path of least resistance, because it required me to do little at the time. On the surface it seemed to be the least attractive option—it seemed to lack passion, and it absolutely would not lead to riches. Yet, it compelled.

The third path was Daddyhood.

I don't know when it happened, exactly. In truth, it may never have "happened", so much as it always was there (and simply needed to be recognized). The fact was this: I wanted to be a daddy. Not a father—a daddy. It's just a word, but it conjures so many images.

Close your eyes and think: "daddy". What do you see?

Now, close your eyes and think: "father".

They're not the same, are they?

Chefs work nights, weekends, and holidays. That's not conducive to being a daddy.

Lawyers—especially lawyers of the ilk I would have become—work obsessively. They feed on ego and fierce competitive nature. I've got those things within me, and I know what happens when I tap those veins. Daddyhood would never have fit that lifestyle; I knew that scenario would lead to regret.

And as the conversation meandered, Daddyhood beckoned. Family life called. I wanted a family. But more importantly, I wanted to be Daddy.

So I stayed my course. I made incremental changes to increase my salary. I shifted my career path, nudging away from this and closer to that—always keeping something of me in reserve...so I could be the best daddy I could be.

Constant Reader, we all make our own myths. I know that this is mine. While it was absolutely as simple as that, it also was far more complicated. So many chapters are being left untold that this story may seem one-dimensional. Yet—and no, the man doth not protest to much—the kernel of truth is here.

Daddyhood drove many decisions. They weren't always the right decisions, but they were grounded in something essential—my identity as Daddy. Separate that from me, and I would be ruined (which is why some aspects of my divorce were so crushing...but that is a story for another time.)

Time passed. Eminent fatherhood terrified me, even as it thrilled me. Seeing Julia—within minutes of her birth—respond to my quiet singing took my breath away (and in writing this, the memory still does). Sleep deprivation and the demands of parenthood challenged me and brought out the worst in me. Demon Insecurity fought with my conviction. I struggled with and against that which I so desired, and at times I lost sight of...everything—my dreams, desires, goals, aspirations, and myself.

Yet the bond I felt with my daughter proved stronger than any demons inside me. She remains my saving angel.

More time, another daughter, and another instant bond. Erin...was different. She seemed so...me,. Tiny, jet-haired, and pink-skinned her spirit burned with a fire from deep within.

On the day Julia was born, she was a warm, yellow light.

On the day Erin was born, she was incandescent.

Nothing has changed.

Yet for all their differences, they're both my little angels. They both love to stroke my arm hair, running their fingers through the strands just as when they were infants.

Even at the ages of eleven and seven, they both love lullaby time.

They both still ask me to read to them. Julia nuzzles her head into my shoulder. Erin perches, reading along. Julia a-cuddle; Erin aware. Both living in the moment with the simple ease of their youth.

These anecdotes are legion. The stories abound. The memories alight.

They are precious to me.

And I need to tell them Daddy has cancer.

I'm not one for staring in the mirror. I don't talk to my reflection. My dialog is internal; it's always with me.

For the past six weeks I've pondered and wondered and fretted and panicked and sweated and ignored and mused and asked and reflected and every-damned-verb-you-can-thinked about how I was going to tell them. And how I could do so, and still be Daddy.

Practice

Divorce sucks. Divorce is brutal.

I've never been so happy for my divorce.

When it happened, telling the girls that BCB and I were separating was the hardest thing I'd ever done.

I'd broken people's hearts, lied to everyone who ever mattered to me, seen death, and committed countless other unpleasantnesses. I'd done things I've regretted, and I'd done things that cracked my soul.

But nothing I'd ever done prepared me to tell my little angels that I had to move out.

The end of my marriage broke my heart. Separation was breaking theirs. Daddy knew which was worse, and it was the stuff of nightmares.

Yet, when it came to it, I was prepared. I knew what I would say.

BCB and I told them; they were devastated. We had some final moments as a family, and then the angels and I held one another, quietly.

I told them that we were about to go on a journey together—like so many of our hikes through the woods. And on our journey we would have to cross a log. Sometimes the log would be wide and easy and we could all cross together with no fear. Other times the log would be narrow, or slick, and still other times it would get long. We would stumble—each of us. And there would be times when each of us would be strong and would lead, sometimes Daddy, and at other times Erin, and Julia would, too. Each of us would help all of us...

And together we would get across that log. Together—holding hands, encouraging...loving one another—we would continue our journey.

And I said that we might never get there—wherever "there" might be. But that as long as we loved one another, we would always be able to bridge the gaps.

And I gave them a message that came from deep within—something they could remember and hold and own and cherish:

I love you forever.
I love you for always.
No matter what happens, for good or for bad,
Wherever you are, wherever I am,
As long as I live,
My sweet baby you'll always be.

I've repeated it hundreds of times since.

We've revisited the log countless times.

We're still together.

---

How much of the wisdom we share with our children is really for them?

We're dishonest when we fail to acknowledge those times when we are also talking to ourselves.

The separation conversation was hard, but my convictions were strong. I knew the message I wanted to send, and I knew the girls knew Daddy loved them.

As the divorce ensued, Daddyhood was threatened, and I had to fight for my girls. As the battles raged, I had to maintain two fronts. I had to be Daddy—strong and wise and loving and supportive and kind. And I had to be hard—as BCB and I engaged in a conflict far beyond my understanding and my experience.

The only thing that enabled me to soldier forth was my Daddyhood.

I did what I had to do to ensure my future with them.

I did things that make me sick. I went places where no one should ever go. I pushed myself beyond my limits, and I started to learn that I have no limits.

I stood strong on two fronts, even when emotional vertigo erased the ground beneath me.

And something strange happened along the way. Divorce didn't destroy Daddy. Divorce made Daddy a better Daddy.

Divorce brought me full-circle to the evening on the porch. It took me back to my root and my core. It stripped away layers of bullshit, like so much bark. All my detritus, my stupid shit angst, my bitterness, my regret, my depression, my anger, all were peeled away. And what was left was what mattered: my little angels.

And that's why I'm happy for the divorce.

Once brittle, I've become folded steel. Divorce's forge first seared me with betrayal and heartbreak. It melted me inside. But I tempered myself. I knew what mattered—my relationship with my girls was all that mattered.

Clarity gives cold comfort, but sometimes that is precisely what is needed. It toughened me. With each battering another layer folded over. Heat and cold worked their magic, making me a stronger, humbler, wiser, more focused, better person.

Divorce was preparing me for something...

Who knew?

What Do You Say?

I solicited advice.

I spoke with the former BCB. I spoke with a professional counsellor. I read material from a variety of sources, I listened to friends and family. But ultimately, I listened to myself.

I knew I needed to be direct.

I needed to be truthful, without being dramatic.

I needed to give detail, but not overwhelm.

I needed to be honest.

I needed to be Daddy.

I reminded myself that "truthful" and "honest" are not the same thing. Being "truthful" means you accurately communicate the facts. Being "honest" means you accurately communicate you—your emotions and thoughts and spirit.

Honesty is when your eyes smile along with your face. Honesty is letting yourself cry. Honesty is telling your angels that you're scared, and that it's all right for them to be scared, too.

Honesty is infinitely harder than the truth; honesty comes at a great cost. Truth is what it is, but honesty makes you vulnerable. How many of us are willing to pay that price?

The former BCB and I had talked on several occasions about how we wanted to handle The Conversation II. It needed to be on a weekend when the angels would be with me, so that they could process it with me, react with me, and ask anything they wanted to ask. We also preferred that it be outside—that it not be in either of our homes. We believed that open air freedom would serve our free-spirited girls far better than the confines of a house.

The weeks passed as my odyssey continued. I travelled and met with him and her and that other guy; I visited this and that hospital medical facility lab center; I was poked and prodded and irradiated and purged; I was...exhausted.

And every time I thought I knew something, something else would happen, and I would become unsure. As I rode the spiral toward understanding, it swerved and bobbled, and I grew dizzy with confusion.

Until now.

I know what I know, and I know what I don't know, and that known unknown is manageable. Which means that I could have The Conversation II.

Until then, there was no sense in telling the angels. Why confuse them? It would be hard enough. Know it, and tell it. Be honest, and be strong.

I've got this.
 

Say It

We met at the reservoir, first tromping through the mud before romping at the playground at the top of the hill. The former BCB brought Zeus—the girls' dog—and we played ball, getting our ya-yas out for a short time. Then, with the sudden directness of her years, Julia said to me: "You did this on purpose, why are we here?" And with that, I told them.

There's no easy way to tell you this, so here it is. Daddy has cancer. It's come back.

Erin immediately melted in tears, burying her head into my lap.

It's OK, honey. Let it out. I have a lot more to say, but it can wait.

She shook as she cried. And she gathered herself—with startling composure—and nodded.

You know that I was sick and in the hospital for Labor Day, and that I've been in New York to see my doctors. You know I haven't been myself. It's because...imagine a hard-boiled egg. I have a hard-boiled egg inside my hip. It's the reason why you haven't been able to hug me there, and why I haven't been riding my bike, or racing cyclocross this season. It hurts.

Julia sat, open eyed and stunned. Erin bawled.

I know, sweetheart. I know.

I stroked her hair and waited for her calm. All the while, Julia and I made eye contact. She's a deep one. Erin let me know she was OK.

There's a lot more to tell you. Let me know when you're ready.

They both nodded.

My doctors are the best in the world. They're going to help me to get better, but it won't be easy. I need to take strong medicines to kill the cancer, and those medicines will make me sick. It's called chemotherapy. First I'll get fat, and then I'll probably get skinny, and I'll lose my hair and other things may happen.

"Will you have to have surgery?" Erin asked.

Yes. I will. After the chemotherapy I'll have surgery to get the nasties out of me.

She buried her head once more. "No!" She cried.

It's what we need to do to get me better again.

And so it went. I told them about the schedule. I explained that I would not be able to see them during the first week, since I would be getting stuff in my arms, just like in the movies. And that I would not be able to see them much during the second week, as I would be sick as a dog.

"Dogs aren't sick," Erin asserted, touchily.

"They are when they're throwing up," I responded, and immediately regretted it.

I cringed. Don't fuck this up, I thought...

I then had to explain to them that I might not be able to see them much during the third week.

You know how you sometime feel—before you get sick—when you're run down and you have a sniffle and a sore throat, but you're not so sick you can't go to school, but you know that you might get really sick soon, if you don't take care of yourself? Well, I'll be a lot like that. And I may not be able to see you—even if we all wear masks...though that would be cool to play doctor with one another with masks and stuff...

Throughout, the former BCB lived in the moment with the girls. She helped console Erin, she interjected here and there—helping clarify, or soothe, or support. She was nothing short of wonderful. Even considering all that has happened in recent years, there were moments wen I recognized the woman with whom I fell in love, and I was reminded that I will always love her. That's my burden. The marriage is gone, but the children remain as a bond to forever unite us. I remain grateful for having met her. I'm deeply appreciative of her as a mother, and I know how much the girls are going to rely on her in the coming months. Hers will be a difficult path as well. I see that.

I talked a little more, but not much. And then it happened: the one question I feared.

"Daddy are you going to die?"

---

In the bleakest moments of my life, I considered it. "Suicidal ideation" is the term. Never trying it, sometimes thinking it, I visited the darkest places any of us can know.

It became a pattern. I knew that place. I'd decorated it and arranged the furniture. I knew every nook and fissure. I could evoke the smell and taste, even as I listened to its sound. It was...comfortable.

I know, it's twisted and sick and deranged and horrible. It's every judgmental phrase you've ever thought and uttered, multiplied by self-righteousness.

But it's true. In my darkest moments, I believed that I was worth more dead to BCB and the Angels than I was worth alive. I was miserable. She was miserable. And the Angels were suffering.

At least the insurance money would be worth something. I thought. My being here doesn't seem to matter.

I fought that demon, wrestling. Sometimes in control, other times I was pressed against the mat, suffering, sinews stretched, sweat pouring, blood in my mouth...

And every time it thought it was winning, I found something.

And that something most often was a little angel. A vision of those eyes, light laughter, golden hair, their scents, their sensibility, their future unrealized, their hearts untrammeled—they would give me strength. And I would be free.

And so it went, around and around...and then...

Divorce changed all of that. It killed that demon.

Divorce brought me full-circle. It reminded me of me.

This above all: to thine ownself be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

It's ironic that just when I learned to love myself and love life, cancer returned. Now I have to fight for that life...and that love.

---

"Daddy, are you going to die?"

It's not in my plans, honey. It's my intention to be here for a long time. I plan to be around to make your adolescences miserable. I plan to stand in the doorway with a shotgun and scare your boyfriends!

And I babbled some more, saying what felt right and sounded right, and seemed right and was right. And she was having none of it. "Daddy, can it kill you?"

I've never stared down the barrel of a gun. I hope I never have to.

I swallowed—painfully conscious of the silence.

Yes. Yes it can.

I told the truth. I was honest.

I was vulnerable, yet I was strong.

When you combine truth with honesty, you become a powerful being.

Daddy is powerful. I was powerful.

We got through it.


Some tears, some hugs, and with the unfathomable resilience of youth they were on the monkey bars and slide and swings and acting like damned fools getting all dirty and silly and giggly and chasing the dog and romping back down the hill.

And everything changed. And nothing changed.

The log got a little shorter and a little wider; the footing got more certain; and we are together.

---

I need to be strong on two fronts, once again: I'm Daddy, and I'm going to beat this cancer.


When the emotional vertigo hits, I'll fight back. With purpose.

What will be will be what will be.
We've got this.

 

Epilogue

After we got home I gave each girl a journal. Erin's is decorated with a dragonfly—a symbol we've long associated with her spirit. Julia's is just plain pretty. It's pink and decorated, yet classic and tasteful—just like her.

I inscribed their journals, and I told them that they were special gifts.

I suggested that they use them to ask questions and shout and scream and tell stories and save all the things they want to say and do, but that they're afraid to say or do. I told them that they were safe spaces—places where only they could go, unless they invited someone else to join them. Most of all, I expressed that the journals were a place to get it out—whatever it is—and that they need to get it out—whatever it is—and that I would support them completely.

Over the weekend I had moments with each girl—private moments between this and that when we shared.

I refined my mantra to them. I like this version more:

I love you forever.
I love you for always.
No matter what happens, for good or for bad,
Wherever you are, wherever I am,
As long as I live...and forever more...
Your Daddy I'll always be.

---

I was doing dishes or getting dinner ready or somesuch kitchenery nonsense when Julia came upon me from behind and hugged me.

It was one of those hugs that you remember.

When she released, I turned around and looked at her. I saw her hurt and her beauty and her love and her fear and her tears all in the same moment.

I held her shoulders and squeezed.

Julia, I'm going to use some dirty words. Deal with it. I paused I'm a tough bastard and I can be a colossal pain in the ass, which is exactly what you need to be to beat this. I'm going to fight like a motherfucker. I'm going to be here for you. And I'm going to be the biggest pain in your ass as you get older.

And I hugged her and we cried. I'd never spoken to her using that language. Somehow it was right. It was honest...

I'm scared, honey, I won't lie. It's really fucking scary. But we'll get through this.

And I teared up. And we cried as we held one another.

I love you.

---

We were settling down to watch a movie. Erin turns to me and declares: "You don't seem to have cancer."

I looked at her blankly, reacting to the words as well as the out-of-the-blueness of it.

What do you mean, honey?

"If you had cancer...I don't know how to explain it...well...you'd be...different...you'd be..."  

Old?

"No."  

Bald?

 "No, you didn't start chemo."

Gobsmacked once again by the precocious one...  

Weak?

"Yeah, weak. You'd be lazy."  

Lazy?

"You'd be sitting around all day watching TV, and your voice would be weird.  

Why weird?

 "Because you'd be weak. Let's start the movie!"

 ---

Sitting on the couch after playing a game, Erin turned to me. "Why did you get cancer?"

I don't know. If I did, I wouldn't have gotten it.

 "How could you have stopped it?"

 I don't know, honey.

"Then why did you say that?"

 And I could have smacked myself for my stupidity.

Because I didn't know what else to say. Erin, you're right. I'm sorry. I don't know why I got cancer.

 "OK."

OK, indeed.  

What will be will be what will be.
We've got this.