While You Were In Treatment (From a Child’s View)
It’s been a few months since you started your treatment.
I see you sometimes through the crack of the bathroom door. You’re holding your hair in your hands. It’s falling out, and tears are running down your cheeks. I don’t really understand why it’s happening, but I want to open the door and hug you so bad. You’re still my mommy, and you’re still the strongest and most beautiful mom in the whole world.
Some days, you’re too tired to do much, but you still try. Like the day you took me outside to play. I wanted you to throw the ball to me like before, but you just sat on the porch wrapped in your blanket. Your cap was on your head, and you looked tired. You were breathing funny and shivering even though it wasn’t cold. I kicked the ball around and watched you try to smile. It didn’t look easy.
“Mommy, can I get you some water?” I asked.
You shook your head softly. “I’m okay, sweetie.”
I wanted to help more. So the next day, I drew you a picture with lots of bright colors. I put a big sun in the sky and me and you holding hands. I taped it to the fridge where you can see it every day to remind you that even if it doesn’t look like it, the sun is still shining somewhere.
Sometimes I talk to the stuffed bear Daddy got me from the hospital gift shop during your scans like it’s you. I tell him, “Mommy, get better soon, okay?”
At night, before I go to sleep, I say a prayer. I ask Jesus to watch over you and help you feel strong again. I’m pretty sure He’s listening, I tell Him all the stuff you like—like your favorite flower and your smile. So I will go outside and I find a tulip has just bloomed overnight and I would pick it just for you.
But sometimes, I get mad.
One afternoon, I slammed my bedroom door so hard I thought the walls might shake. I yelled at the top of my lungs, “Why does Mommy have to be sick? It’s not fair! I’m tired of being sad all the time!”
I threw my toys on the floor and stomped my feet. “I don’t want this anymore! I want my old mommy back. The one who plays with me and doesn’t look like a ghost!”
Daddy came to my door and knocked gently. “Hey, kiddo, do you want to talk about it?”
“No!” I shouted. “I’m mad! Why can’t she just get better? It’s not fair!”
Later that night, Mommy came into my room and sat beside me. She didn’t say much, just held me close. “It’s okay to be mad, sweetheart. I get mad sometimes too.”
I wanted to scream more, but instead, I just cried until I felt tired.
Sometimes, I get scared. I ask Daddy if you’re going to be okay. He tells me, “We’re doing everything we can.” But I still think about you not waking up or getting really, really sick. When I’m scared, I hold my blanket tight and close my eyes until the scary thoughts go away.
Other times, I feel sad. Like the time I saw you cry when I wasn’t looking. I wanted to run to you, but I didn’t want you to be sad because of me. So I stayed quiet.
And sometimes, I feel bad because I’m happy. When I laugh at a silly cartoon or eat my favorite ice cream, I feel like I shouldn’t enjoy it while you’re sick. But Mommy says, “It’s okay to be happy. We need happy to help us keep going.”
One day, I saw you standing in the kitchen without your blanket. You smiled at me and asked if I wanted to help bake cookies. Your hands were still a little shaky, but you didn’t look as tired.
I grabbed the flour and the big mixing bowl. We made a mess, but I didn’t care. I just wanted that moment back—the one where Mommy and me were the same team again.
When the cookies came out of the oven, you hugged me tight and said, “Thank you for being my helper.”
I smiled, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like everything was going to be okay.
Even when you can’t play like before, or when your hands feel too weak to hold mine, I still love you. I love you more than all the stars in the sky. I wait for the day you come back strong and not so tired.
The End.
If you’re a parent going through treatment, reading this might feel all too familiar. It’s not easy—navigating your own emotions while trying to protect and support your child’s. But you don’t have to do it alone.
It’s important that your children feel like they’re part of your cancer journey. Use a soothing tone when communicating your diagnosis to help them see that you’re managing your emotions—this encourages them to do the same.
Kids can sense when something is wrong and may imagine something far scarier than the truth. Be honest and explain your diagnosis in a way that’s accurate but age-appropriate. Let them know what the treatment plan will look like, how routines may shift, and what side effects they might notice, so they can feel prepared instead of scared.
When they ask questions, give them honest answers. This helps build stability and trust in a time when everything feels uncertain. Remind them they can lean on others in your support system too—it doesn’t all have to fall on you.
Encourage your children to share their feelings, and remind them often that they are still loved and cared for, no matter what changes.
If you’re struggling with how to talk to your child about your diagnosis, please reach out to us at Hope Cancer Wellness Center at 815-288-4673. Our social worker can help you help your child. She can also talk to your child directly in ways that make sense to them.
If you’re unable to afford counseling or just want someone who understands the unique challenges of cancer—don’t hesitate to reach out. We’re here for your whole family.
