Telling My Daughter About My Cancer

By Lily Sacks-Hubbard

When I answered my doctor's phone call, I wasn't processing the words my doctor was telling me. I thought the word "positive" meant that my biopsy was good; I was going to be okay. That security was shattered moments later when I realized she kept talking about the results and next steps. Time seemed to stop--this couldn't be happening. I went to see my doctor to get her blessing to have another baby. Instead, I was diagnosed with breast cancer at thirty-three years old. Worse yet, how was I going to tell my daughter? She was four years old. I'm a pediatric social worker in the hospital yet sharing my cancer diagnosis with my daughter was so very hard, despite all my professional training.

I realized that what I shared and how I shared that information with my child would set the stage for how our family managed and coped with this diagnosis. My goal was to be open, medically accurate and developmentally appropriate. Our family had the advantage of our daughter's young age, which helped us educate her about cancer because she had no previous knowledge of cancer. To us as adults, the word cancer is scary because we know cancer's devastating impacts, but my four year old was blissfully unaware.

I showed her pictures of healthy cells and explained how we all had cells in our bodies but that the cells in my body changed.  The changed cells were cancer cells, and they were unhealthy for me. We approached my treatment plans the same way--with openness and medically accurate information that was presented in a developmentally appropriate manner.  We were careful to not equate cancer to me being "sick" because we did not want her to worry that the next time she got a cold it would turn into cancer.

When I had surgeries we educated her on what a scalpel was and how it was a special tool used by the surgeon to remove the cancer cells. We talked about how chemotherapy was such good, strong medication that while it would help kill off the cancer cells, it would also make my hair fall out too because both the cancer cells and my hair were fast growing and the chemo targeted fast growing cells. When it came time for my hair to go, I let her dye it wild colors then buzz it all off in our backyard the following day. I asked her preference for me to wear wigs, hats, or nothing at all when I went to school pickup to ensure she felt comfortable. She was my little shot helper at home, cleaning off my skin with the alcohol prep pads before injections.  When radiation came, she came with me to see all the machines and the techs let her watch from their screens in the adjoining room.  She was thrilled to learn about the strong energy zaps to blast away any remaining cancer.  

Our daughter was an integral part of our family facing cancer in a way that helped keep hard things light. When we joined a cancer charity race and needed a team name, she appropriately named our family "The Cancer Butt Kickers", which is exactly what we did together as a team, our little family faced cancer together and kicked its butt.  

Lily Sack-Hubbard, LMSW a clinical social worker, two-time breast cancer patient, and parent. Lily works in pediatrics at a hospital, facilitates oncology support groups, and manages a private practice that focuses on families and cancer.

Lily is also the author of The Very Naughty Cell.  You can check it out here.