There have been many things that I have overcome or learned to live with during my cancer treatment, the aftermath and the whole journey in general.

The physical toll, the emotional rollercoaster, the mind games, the scanxiety, people’s ignorance and fear and unsolicited advice, and most of all, myself. I deal with all of these, sometimes more, sometimes less, sometimes too much, and sometimes I avoid them only to have them smack me down later.

But I handle it all. I get up, dust myself, make a snarky comment and move on.

However, the one thing that makes my heart plummet to the ground and break into a million pieces is the fact that me having cancer has stripped away my children’s carefree childhood.

No child should hear that the mother might die. No child should see the mother broken, ill and defeated. No child should take on the responsibility of the parent, because the parent is incapable. No child should have to go through that.

My three children are my life, my pride, the reason I said from day one that I’m not going anywhere.

But I will always feel guilty for making them go through this. Even though it is not my fault.

I’ve mentioned it a few times in conversations, brushed upon it in some of my posts, but I have only dived in a couple of times. Because I find it overwhelmingly painful.

The day I was diagnosed when we came home, my husband and I had a couple of hours before we picked them up from school, to figure ourselves out and put our masks on. I told them I wasn’t feeling well, but they could see my red eyes, and how I was careful in my movements, because I was in pain from the biopsy on the side of my right boob. I remember that I kept looking at them and tearing up. Wondering if this was it, and how many years would I get with them. Would I ever see them grow? Would I see them fall in love? Would I even see their next birthdays?

Once all the scans and tests had been done and we had a plan, we sat down with them and told them. My eldest cried because they knew what it was. My middle one asked if I was going to die. My third was too young, but got scared all the same. They were 9, 7 and 5 years old then.

And as hard as it was, I told them that I would fight this and I would win. I made them that promise, and that solidified my purpose. Telling them was awful and liberating at the same time. I could see them being scared, but now we could be open about it all and talk.

We tried to make the road as easy as possible.

Starting with my hair; before I started chemo, we got the children to cut my hair along with me and my husband. We prepared them that I wouldn’t have hair at all after a while. We also warned them that my energy would be low. And they saw it. Saw me going up the stairs and pausing between steps. Saw me sit on the bed willing my clothes to remove themselves. Saw me being sick in a bucket.

These were things I was prepared for. But then came the other little things I didn’t think of.

I couldn’t cook for them, because of my dead taste buds and feeling sick. I couldn’t help them with their shoe laces or tight up their hair because of my neuropathy. I could barely walk them to school, asking them to walk slower so I could catch up. I couldn’t read to them because I would get dizzy. I couldn’t text their teachers because the screen was too bright and having to also type in another language took more effort. I couldn’t do a lot of things I took for granted. And their little eyes never blamed me.

The hospital’s therapist arranged to have the children come for a couple of workshops, to show them that their feelings are valid, it’s ok to be scared, and that there is one more person they can talk to. We did this exercise where we all held up a table together, then I stopped holding the table and stood back. The therapist pointed out that this will happen; mama would not be strong enough to carry the same load as everyone else, the load will become heavier, but they can still carry it all together until I’m better. So simple.

And they rose to the occasion and made me so proud.

They searched for wigs and hats for my bald head. They sat with me on the step of the stairs where I would pause to catch my breath. They helped me take off my clothes and cover me when I lay in bed. They brought tissues and called papa to help when I had been sick in the bucket.

They learned to cook some easy things: breakfast porridge, pancake mix and later on actually bake the pancakes, or cut fruit and vegetables. One learned to do their shoelaces and taught the other one. They would walk next to me slowly and ask if I needed to lean on them. They would sit in bed with me and read their favourite book to me. My eldest would help me type messages to their teachers.

And so many other things that I wouldn’t have expected them to have to do already. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; my children had to grow up a little faster.

I won, as I promised and I plan to stick around for a long while. And while I’m worried about recurrence and they are worried that I might get sick again, we’ve entered a chapter where we realised that we are stronger together, open about our feelings and give space and support each other.

Having my children watch me go through this was petrifying as I knew I couldn’t let them down. Having my children with me on the day I was declared N.E.D. was a perfect triumph to share with them, as they played a big part in it: motivation and help.

And I am so grateful for them.

I told myself that no matter what, I would laugh the whole way. I would laugh so I could win. And I would laugh in case I didn’t. Because, despite it all, my children will remember me having a smile, throwing humorous comments, spewing sarcastic remarks, and living life. It’s the best lesson I can teach them, wrapped up as a gift that will hopefully show them that they should live with a smile. With humour, and laughter.

Which they did and still do.

The thing that will always stay with me though is that no matter how sick I was and looked, or how my appearance had changed and all the hurricane of emotions and feelings, they still wanted to hug me, kiss me, and be with me. They still wanted me to be their mama. I realised that this was something that unconsciously I was afraid of; that my loved ones will step away.

But they didn’t give up on me. And I realise just how lucky I am.

I’ve written about them a few times in my posts, if you would like to read and have a giggle or a cry

31st October 2022 – My children and my treatment

9th January 2023 – Taking my children out to lunch for the first time in a while

29th February 2023 – Funny things my children have said during my cancer journey

29th December 2023 – My children joining me to my immunotherapy sessions