I have the BRCA I mutation, meaning I had an 87 percent chance of developing breast cancer. After my preventative bilateral mastectomy, I now have a two percent chance. I think I made the right call, but even so, deciding to go through with surgery when there was nothing technically wrong was a grueling choice for me and my family… one that had unexpected ramifications for my relationship with my kids.
After my BRCA I mutation was identified, my husband and I had several conversations about whether it was better to get surgery to avoid a cancer diagnosis, or wait and hope for the best. It was a difficult choice. If I waited and did get cancer, I would have to get the surgery anyway, on top of chemotherapy and radiation. The combination would leave me sick and unable to take care of the household or my children for several months even in the best case scenario; in the worst case scenario, it could have killed me.
An Impossible Choice
After my BRCA I mutation was identified, my husband and I had several conversations about whether it was better to get surgery to avoid a cancer diagnosis, or wait and hope for the best. But how to tell our nine-year-old twins?
We decided to have the surgery. But how to tell our nine-year-old twins? Ultimately, we decided to tell them a week before the surgery–not too far in advance that they’d obsess, but not so soon to surgery as to give them an awful shock.
It didn’t work. My kids suddenly worried about me in a way they’d never had to worry about anything else in their lives. It’s come out in panic attacks, failing grades, angry outbursts, and emotional upheaval.
On the one hand, my children were scared for me. I’ll never forget seeing a page from an assignment my daughter had to do around that time for school. It was supposed to be an assignment to imagine a day in their parents’ lives, but her sheet was filled from top-to-bottom with just the words “PLEASE DON’T DIE, OH NO, HOSPITAL, PLEASE DON’T DIE” over and over again. But they were also angry at me, because suddenly, they realized that I could die. For the first time in their lives, they were forced to view me as a human being. I was no longer immortal Mom, the all-encompassing, immovable presence in their lives. Instead, I was reduced in their eyes to just another lady who could die, and they felt betrayed.
In My Daughters’ Eyes, Suddenly Mortal
Slowly, as I finish up my recovery, we are getting back to where we were, but their lives changed that day, not just mine. I went in looking one way. I came out swollen, bruised, and with drainage lines attached. Their dad takes them to school now—something that had never happened before—and we’ve been living on take-out until I could start cooking again. The girls see me unable to perform simple tasks, and it’s taking a toll on them. It makes the surgery not a temporary blip in my immortality, but a constant reminder that the definition they had of me was wrong.
Worse, they now know that they, too, can get cancer. That their genes, too, may contain ticking time bombs. They bombard me with questions I can’t answer: Will I still get cancer? Do they have it? Will they get it? How will they know? Will they have to lose the breasts they haven’t even developed yet someday? Will they die? In their eyes, my surgery hasn’t just robbed me of my immortality: it’s robbed them of theirs.
My kids suddenly worried about me in a way they’d never had to worry about anything else in their lives.
I’m almost completely healed now. I’m cooking again, and doing laundry. I’m here to define ‘infiltrate’ and ‘stealthy’ as my kids take on difficult mystery reading. I can lift my small dog again and wash down countertops. But getting back our family’s emotional flow has been difficult. I sometimes have to remember not to be angry at my children for being angry at me.
Leaving Behind The God-Mom Fantasy
What I’ve learned is not to expect too much, to be happy about little things and bring in joy when I can. So often, we deal with health crises, and nothing, really, can shake up a life more, but in accepting that we cannot change what we must walk through, that we cannot quicken the pace or hide the strain, we are setting ourselves and our families up for a solid recovery, not of the body that had been hurt or ill, but of the relationships tested in the distress of humanity.
In the end, though, I think this experience will make us all stronger, because it helped my family in a way I never knew we needed help. The more time that passes, the more I realize my children had to give up the mom-god fantasy, and, honestly, so did I. Before my surgery, I tried to be everything to them, but during my recovery, they had to learn self-sufficiency. Where once I was waking them up for school and helping them get dressed, now they were on their own as I struggled behind the closed door of a bathroom to empty the plastic recovery drains.
My daughters may no longer view me immortal after my surgery and subsequent recovery, but I can at least be thankful that the experience has better prepared them for a time when I’m no longer here.