Tonight was the night when it all came out. My daughter was having a rough time going to sleep. So many things were distracting her: she accidentally spilled dad’s tea, she couldn’t get all the snots out of her nose to breathe right, she didn’t have enough time to read on her own, there could be a fire alarm at school, mom might leave her side, mom might die.
She laid in bed across my lap and asked questions: don’t show me but what does it look like? Does it hurt? What is the name of what you have? What is the next step? What does radiation feel like? Why will there be a sunburn? That’s silly! Will you die before dad?
I don’t want you to ever leave my side because I would be so sad I couldn’t keep living.
I was absolutely gutted. But I had to answer the questions honestly, at her level.
Appropriately. Without completely losing my shit.
I told her that I am doing the surgeries and intense light (radiation) treatments so that I could be with her as long as possible, to see all the fun things she is going to do, to see how she overcomes struggles and to celebrate all the little victories in life. That we could do so much together.
She wouldn’t accept that.
I stroked her hair and said that I understand her feelings because I have a mom too and will be so sad when she dies. That it’s ok to be sad when someone we love goes away. That we have to remember the fun times we had together and the things we did. And the stories they tell and the memories we make. And that those will last until we die.
She barely accepted that.
At this point I have tears rolling down my face but it’s dark. She asked me if I was sad and I said that I wasn’t sad but sorry that she was feeling so many big emotions, but that it was normal and I was feeling big emotions too. That we could feel them together. And that if she felt them, that so many people in her life besides me would open their arms and hug her.
And that was all I could offer her. And I held her until she slept.
Then I crumbled.
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