How I Told My Kids I Had Cancer

The moment my daughter shifted my perspective—plus guidance for talking to children of any age

When I was lying on the biopsy table, after the radiologist had just shown me on the screen what looked like cancerous masses in my right breast and under my arm, my very first thought was about my kids.

I was going to die of breast cancer and they would be left without a mother.

It was one of the darkest moments of my entire cancer journey. I lay in the fetal position facing the wall, my shoulders shaking as I tried to control the sobs. There was a window and I remember the anemic sunlight of that winter’s afternoon shining through, the murmur of voices behind me.

Sweet toddler kisses in the summertime

Following that appointment, we had to wait an excruciating week for the biopsy results. The radiologist had all but confirmed the cancer, but we still needed the final pathology before we’d know for sure. Everything was unknown then. I knew so little about breast cancer. I assumed most women died of the disease, and that I would be one of them.

My thoughts remained on my two children, who were 6 and 8 at the time. I would be the primary trauma in their life, stunting their growth in all kinds of ways. Equally unbearable—I would never see them grow up, see who they’d become, bear witness to the moments, big and small, of their childhood.

Spoiler: It was breast cancer, stage 3, and I would need to have surgery urgently followed by chemotherapy and radiation.

We didn’t tell the kids immediately, but the specter of that conversation hung over all my interactions with them. When would be the right time? My mastectomy was scheduled 10 days from diagnosis, which didn’t leave us much time to break the news.

My husband and I felt ill-equipped in the situation. How could we tell them without scaring them? How could we reassure them Mommy would be ok, if we didn’t even know that ourselves?

We decided to schedule an online meeting together with my therapist to discuss the best way to do it. She gently reminded us that honesty and communication were a core value in our family, and we needed to approach the conversation with the kids through that lens. So what would that look like?

Firstly, not telling them was not an option for us. I’d heard of another mother who had kept it quiet from her child, but I didn’t know the details. Practically, I didn’t know how that would work, considering all the physical changes you undergo during treatment. I also didn’t think that was fair to our children. Kids see everything. We may think they’re wrapped up in their own little worlds, but in reality they’re closely observing everything around them.

We owed them the truth, we just needed to figure out how best to package it.

According to my therapist, simple, direct language would work best. I already knew I wanted to use the word “cancer.” I didn’t want to be vague about it, calling it a “sickness” or “illness.” I’m a firm believer that naming something strips it of its power. I also didn’t want a friend at school to say something about “your mom has cancer” and my child to be the last to know.

I liken our approach to how I talk about bodies and sex with my children. I’ve always used the proper names for their private parts, and I’ve used scientific (age-appropriate) explanations for how babies are made.

Lastly, we needed to reassure them that everything was going to be ok—I was still their mom, their daily lives weren’t going to change much. In fact, I would be around a lot more because I wouldn’t be working during those months of treatment. Bonus!

We also wanted to make it clear to them that they were not to blame for my cancer, that they hadn’t caused it. My therapist put it this way: When something big and scary happens, their first instinct is often, “Did I do something wrong?”

So, we were decided: call cancer what it was, be straightforward and unambiguous about it, and reassure them that they had absolutely nothing to do with causing it.

Now the question was: When would we tell them? And where? We decided on morning, rather than in the afternoon or evening, when they might be more tired and cranky. As to where, we thought either the couch or our bed made the most sense. We would all snuggle in so everyone felt safe.

We told the kids on a Saturday, four days before my mastectomy. That might sound like we left it to the last-minute, but considering I was only diagnosed earlier that week, everything was happening at warp speed.

They were watching cartoons in the living room. I remember looking at my husband, unsure if now was a good time, but he reminded me we didn’t exactly have the luxury of time.

“Hey guys,” we said, “Mommy and Daddy need to chat to you about something.”