Cancer is Love
"Cancer is love" and other lessons learned after my wife passed away from cancer 16 years ago when my kids were six and four.
I wrote the original version of this essay When You Suddenly Become Mom and Dad, for P.S. I Love You on Medium. It went semi-viral for a post of this kind, and I’ve been touched that so many people shared it to help friends get through tough times with cancer and loss. I hope it does the same for you.
I became “both mom and dad” when my kids were six and four. My wife, Sue, died after a two-year battle with cancer. I was terrified by the responsibility to be “both mom and dad” for Jack and Ruby. Learning my new job became my obsession.
Almost twenty years later, we made it. Jack and Ruby are sensitive, funny, and kind. Sue’s spirit lives on in them. Our family unit changed. Friends disappointed and inspired me.
If I could travel back in time and give some advice to my newly widowed self, here’s what I’d say.
Yes, Cancer is Love
During one of Sue’s chemo treatments, I asked our nurse: “How do you stay positive with all the suffering around you?”
She replied, “Because cancer is love.”
I didn’t hide my surprise. At the time, cancer and love didn’t seem connected at all. I think our nurse sensed my skepticism. She began to list examples of love she saw every day: The kindness of volunteers for folks they hadn’t met, the patience of friends who sat for hours reading to chemo patients, the joy on the faces of children who couldn’t care less that their mom was bald.
Cancer, she said, brings out the best in us. Cancer is love.
While I was in it, cancer was overwhelming. But looking back, our nurse was right. It’s the love I remember the most: the dinners our friends brought, unasked, for over a year; Ruby riding the electric hospital bed with Sue like a very slow rollercoaster; the note Sue wrote to Jack that he keeps in his room a decade later; Ruby watching I Love Lucy with Sue while she was dying in home hospice.
Yes, cancer is painful; it also brings love.
With Kids, Speak Plainly to Avoid Magical Thinking
Kids ask hard questions; parents aren’t so good at answering them. You need to learn to answer questions, especially about death.
For example, our grief counselor, Jen, coached me through answering Jack and Ruby’s questions with simple, direct language. That is, say, “She died,” not “She’s in a better place,” or “Nobody knows why this happened.” Vague answers confuse kids, and when kids are confused, they make up explanations that can be harmful. Psychologists call it magical thinking.
To explain magical thinking, Jen told me about Bobby. Bobby was playing with his brother and got angry — he chased his brother toward the street — a car hit and killed his brother right in front of his whole family.
For months, Bobby asked his parents why his brother died. His parents were devastated. They couldn’t respond. They couldn’t explain.
Bobby stopped participating in school. He didn’t express emotion. His parents thought he was depressed and brought him to Jen. Jen uncovered that, without an explanation, Bobby had decided that his anger caused his brothers' death, so he suppressed his emotions so he wouldn't hurt anyone else, especially his parents. That’s magical thinking.
Jen told Bobby the simple truth: his brother’s death was an accident, nothing more. He wasn’t to blame. His anger wasn’t to blame. She convinced Bobby that it wasn’t his fault.
Over time, Bobby came out of his shell.
Direct language is the antidote to magical thinking, and it’s a skill. I’m glad Jen taught me how to do it!
The Law of Age-Minutes
Jen had a great rule about talking with kids about grief: You have one minute for each year of age. That is, with a four-year-old, you have four minutes before you lose their attention. I called it the Law of Age-Minutes.
The forced constraint of four minutes helps you focus on precisely what you want to say. It forces you to keep it simple. It forces you to think.
“Your brother’s death was an accident.”
“Your mom died because she was very, very sick.”
“I’m sorry I’m angry; I’m just really sad today.”
I wish I had practiced keeping it short with kids before I had to learn the skill.
A Child’s Perception of Death Changes as they Get Older
A child's understanding of death changes with age. Understanding their point of view is crucial so you can communicate with them effectively.
For example, before the age of four, kids don’t understand that death is permanent. Think of it from their perspective: They watch Wile-E Coyote die, come back to life, and die over and over and over in a thirty-minute cartoon.
As a result, it’s common for four-year-olds to ask for a parent after they die. Ruby did this. A week after Sue died, Ruby said goodbye. She asked when she was coming down for breakfast. Jen helped me anticipate her question. Ruby wasn't in denial; she was just a typical four-year-old.
On the other hand, six-year-olds understand that death is permanent. Jack was six. A few weeks before Sue died, he wouldn’t leave the house. Sue was at home, in hospice. Jen explained that Jack was waiting to say goodbye — he knew Sue would soon be gone forever.
Understanding how kids conceive of death helped me better answer their questions. If I could go back in time, I'd share this article, A Child's Concept of Death, from Stanford University, which encapsulates what Jen taught me.
Adopt a Love Mantra
“We love each other” was Sue’s most important family rule. After she died, we had bad days. When the kids squabbled, I reminded them of Sue’s rule.
Eventually, we gave her rule a name: Momoo’s Rule. Branding this rule helped keep Sue’s spirit alive in a very real way — we still call out her rule when things get tough.
So, if your loved one had a mantra, use it. And if you don’t have one, steal Sue's — it's good!
Holidays Are Brutal Until They Aren’t
I have no advice about getting through the first year of holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries except this: Grind through it. They all sucked. I was numb at our first Christmas without Sue. I have little recollection of it.
Over time, things got better. I have no idea how long it took. My instinct was to forge new traditions while keeping small elements of the past. We had fish or pizza instead of what Sue cooked for Christmas, although Sue’s friend Jodi made her toffee every year. We mixed in the old with the new. I made Sue’s cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving, but we didn’t stay home.
Sue’s first post-death birthday was hard, but we found a way to celebrate it. I took the kids to her favorite restaurant, and we told stories about her. We toasted her with chocolate milk (wine for me). We made it a celebration of her life as much as we could. The snag came when our waitress brought a cupcake with a candle and asked: "Who's birthday is it? I lost it.
Ruby saved me. She said, “It’s my Momoo’s birthday!” and started to sing “Happy Birthday to Momoo.” Confused, the waitress left. But we were cool.
This birthday tradition ages well. Each year, I tell new stories that fit Jack and Ruby’s age: the story of why Sue chose to go to college in Montreal, the story of her first kiss, and the stories from her summer as an exchange student in France. It's fun to think of Sue’s life stories that match Jack and Ruby’s age and growth.
Put the Oxygen Mask on Yourself First
The airlines teach you to put your oxygen mask on yourself first, then help your kids. That procedure used to seem backward to me until my wife died. After Sue's death, I reconsidered my career. I wanted to be a CEO, but I thought I “should” give up my dream for the kids. I “should” get a safer, low-stress, less-risk job near home.
Then, I got a job offer as CEO. Friends told me not to take it. Don, my counselor, said: "Take the job. If you’re happy, the kids will be happy. They’ll feed off of your energy.” Don was telling me to put the oxygen mask on myself first.
“But when I travel, won’t they miss me?” I asked. Don said, “Yes. But call them every night. If they know you’re there, they’ll be fine.”
I took the job and never regretted it.
So put the happiness mask on yourself first, whatever that mask is. Don’t wear one that others think should fit. Make yourself happy, and your kids will be happy.
Expect to Reboot Your Social Circle
In biblical Greek, “apocalypse” means “an uncovering.” Sue’s death uncovered a new social dynamic for me. Almost all my family-based relationships disappeared within a year.
It happened quickly and quietly. Sue was the catalyst, and the catalyst was gone. Worse, her absence was palpable and painful. Dinners with couples were awkward — they silently depended on the dynamics of four people, especially her. Without Sue, things were weird. Invitations slowed, then stopped. One friend said it out loud: Seeing me made her miss Sue more.
“Create a new normal” is the positive way counselors put it. They don’t tell you that the old normal disappears quickly, sometimes without leaving a trace.
I took it personally, but it wasn’t personal. I wish I had expected friends to disappear, usually silently and awkwardly. And I wish I knew how great the new normal would be, with fantastic new friends and new traditions.
Cancer is Love
The Greek philosopher Plutarch said, “What we achieve inwardly will change our outer reality.” When Sue died, I tried to retain our outside reality: playdates, birthdays, my job, and friends.
As I let those go, a new, wonderful normal emerged. New friends emerged. New love arose. I learned how to talk to kids. We learned to relive our favorite Sue stories together. This is what I would tell myself a decade ago — an apocalypse is an uncovering. It uncovers love.
Our chemotherapy nurse was right: Cancer is love.
This article originally appeared in the Medium publication P.S. I Love You. Every year or two, I update it. This holiday season, I'm sharing a short cohort-style mini-course, The Generative AI Growth Mindset. It's a session I teach for Modal Learning, who have agreed to let me donate the proceeds to The Kaplan Family Hospice House in Danvers, Massachusetts. They helped support and guide my family years ago at a tough time.
The mini-course is a one-hour exploration of how to use generative AI for storytelling, research, creativity, and complex decision-making. Thanks to Modal, it's just $49, with 100% of proceeds (net of the hosting platform's 12% fee) going directly to support Kaplan House.