When You Suddenly Become Mom and Dad
"Cancer is love" and other lessons learned after my wife passed away from cancer 16 years ago when my kids were six and four.
This is a re-post of the original essay, When You Suddenly Become Mom and Dad that I wrote for P.S., I Love You on Medium, which has sadly shut down. It was viewed and “liked” hundreds of thousands of times, and I’ve reposted it here and on LinkedIn. Enjoy!
I became “both mom and dad” when my kids were six and four. My wife, Sue, died after a 2-year battle with cancer. The weight of my responsibility as a dad was on my mind. A grief counselor told me that my kids would be OK if I did my job. Learning my new job became my obsession.
A decade later, we made it, and I learned a lot. Jack and Ruby are sensitive, funny, and kind. We integrate Sue’s spirit into our lives. But there were surprises. If I could travel back in time and give some advice to my recently widowed self, here’s what I’d say.
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 continued to give examples of the positivity she saw every day. She talked about the kindness of volunteers, the patience of friends, and the joy of children who came into the chemo ward.
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. Dinners our friends brought, unasked; Ruby “riding the hospital bed” with Sue, up and down 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 in hospice.
Yes, cancer brings pain; it also brings love.
How to Talk to Kids About Grief
Kids ask hard questions. Our grief counselor, Jen, coached me through answering with short, direct, age-appropriate answers. Straightforward language helps avoid magical thinking, which kids do when they don't get straight talk from adults. For example, phrases like "she's in a better place" can confuse a 4-year-old.
To explain magical thinking, Jen told me about Bobby. One day, Bobby was playing with his brother. They fought. Bobby chased his brother toward the street. A car struck and killed his brother right in front of him and his family. For months, Bobby asked his parents to explain why his brother had to die. His parents couldn’t talk about it.
Bobby stopped participating in school. He wouldn't cry. He had magically decided that his anger was to blame for his brothers' death. He suppressed his emotions so he wouldn't hurt anyone else.
Jen explained to Bobby that his brother’s death was merely an accident.
She convinced him that it wasn’t his fault.
Over time, Bobby came out of his shell.
With Kids, Keep it Short
Jen’s other rule about talking with kids about grief was to talk with kids for as many minutes as they are old.
I called it the years-to-minutes rule: For a four-year-old, you have four minutes before you lose their attention.
The forced constraint of four minutes helps you focus on precisely what you want to say.
A Child’s Perception of Death Changes as they Get Older
A child's conception of death changes with age. For example, young children don’t understand the concept of permanence. A four-year-old sees Wile-E Coyote die, come back to life, die again, and come back to life. Over and over and over. So, it’s common for four-year-olds to ask for a parent after they die.
Ruby did this. She asked me when Sue was coming down for breakfast a week after she died.
Jen had 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 forever. 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. Jen had me promise Jack I’d bring him home to say goodbye if his mom died while he was out. It worked. He returned to his routine, and, of course, I kept my word.
Understanding how kids conceive of death helped me answer their questions better. If I went 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 #1 family rule. After she died, we kept it as a constant reminder of what mattered most to her. When the kids squabbled, I reminded them of Momoo’s Rule.
Momoo’s Rule helped keep Sue’s spirit real. Jack and Ruby are in college now, and we still recall our 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 Suck Until They Don’t
In the first year, holidays, anniversaries, and birthdays sucked. I was numb at our first Christmas without Sue. I have little recollection of it. So, I have no advice about getting through the first year except to grind away and lean on friends and family.
Over time, things got better. I have no idea how long it took. My instinct was to forge new traditions from the ones we shared with Sue. Her friend Jodi makes her toffee every year at Christmas. I make Sue’s cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving.
Sue’s first post-death birthday was hard. I took the kids to her favorite restaurant. We told stories about her and cheers’d with chocolate milk. I told my well-worn story about Jack plunging his hand into the frosting when he was two. Sue loved that moment.
The big snag came when our waitress assumed it was MY birthday and brought a cupcake with a candle. She asked: "Who's birthday is it?”
I lost it. I couldn’t say the answer.
Ruby saved me. She said, “It’s Momoo’s birthday!” and started to sing “Happy Birthday to Momoo.”
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. The stories from her summer as an exchange student in France. It's fun to think of Sue’s life stories that match what Jack and Ruby are going through.
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 was dreaming about being a CEO. Most would consider my job high-stress, but I love it. I traveled a lot. But I started to think about giving up that dream for my kids to get a job close to home without the pressure and travel.
Then, I got a dream job offer to be CEO. Friends told me not to take it. Don, one of my councilors, thought otherwise. He said: "First, do what will make you happy. If you’re happy, your 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 everyone else thinks will fit. Make yourself happy, and the kids will follow your lead.
Expect to Reboot Your Social Circle
In biblical Greek, “apocalypse” means “an uncovering.” Sue’s death brought on a social apocalypse for me. 9 out of 10 of my kid-centric friendships disappeared within a year. Our new family unity didn’t fit in anymore.
It happened fast and silently. Dinners were awkward without Sue. Playdates for the kids, which was as much an event for the moms, faded away; I wasn’t part of the “mom group.” Frankly, seeing me and the kids made everyone miss Sue more. I don't blame them. It was easier for me to be with people who didn't know Sue, too.
I wish I knew that Sue’s death would uncover a new social circle and most of our shared friends (not all) would vanish. It would have been easier.
Cancer is Love
Greek philosopher Plutarch said, “What we achieve inwardly will change our outer reality.” At the start, I tried to fix the "outer reality" for Jack and Ruby: playdates, birthdays, my job, and friends.
But the most significant changes for our family happened on the inside. I became more empathetic as I learned how to talk to my kids. I learned how to celebrate birthdays. We learned to relive our favorite Sue stories together. Friends faded away, and new love grew.
This is what I would tell myself a decade ago. An apocalypse is an uncovering. Mostly, 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.