Ken Richter recently had to inform his two young sons that he had been diagnosed with stage-3 cancer. This is what happened.
—
Telling my boys I have cancer was the most difficult thing I have ever done.
My twelve year old, Kazner, sat upright, shaking his head as if he could unhear what I’d said. His gaze locked onto me, looking for some sign that I might take it all back. His eyes brimmed with unshed tears. My older boy, Boon, simply put his face into his hands and sobbed.
I tried to explain everything about the cancer, but my voice was broken and I couldn’t breathe. There was no holding back on my tears. I said “I’m going to get sick, really sick, but that won’t mean I’m losing. That won’t mean I can’t fight my way back.”
Their mom sat on a chair, an arms distance away, crying openly. We’ve been divorced more than a decade, but we are friends and we do our best to be unified in parenting the boys. I was at her house, a century-old church that we’d renovated together. We all sat together, at my request, circled up using a small couch and two chairs.
Kazner was trying so hard not to cry and to listen to me explain what was happening. My fifteen year old kept his face in his hands, and tears dropped through his fingers to the floor. Seeing this, watching them trying to be strong… because… why? Because men in this country can’t break down and cry?
Why are we like this? How did this come to be? Did I somehow promote this through my actions?
There is nothing wrong with crying, and there is nothing weak in crying.
My boys are beautiful young men with real emotions and real tears.
We’ve cried, and we will cry again as we face the danger of what I’m going up against.
Their tears strengthen me. Your tears strengthen me.
I opened my arms to Kaz and he embraced me immediately. As he sobbed openly in my arms, my sweet Boon wrapped his arms around both of us and we held each other and cried and cried. I extended my hand to their mom’s hand, to comfort and include her, and the minutes seemed to last an eternity. The pain, fear, sorrow, and love of that moment will be with me forever.
About a week later, Kazner hugged me and said “You’re not going to die, Dad.”
He believes in me, in my will, and in my friends who pray, chant, meditate, send daily reikis and good vibes… and he believes in God.
I don’t attend church and have not been affiliated with any church for at least twenty years. At some point in my late twenties, I gave up on organized religion and declared that I was agnostic.
Both of my boys go to occasional church functions with friends who are Baptist, Mormon, Assembly of God, whatever, we don’t discriminate. It’s a small town and these are the options for getting out of the house and being with friends.
I’ve never dissuaded or directed their religious views. Religion is a personal choice, and I don’t believe there is a wrong or right in the matter. I promote kindness, understanding, communication, and love. I don’t care how you get there, just live by that, and you’re going to be living in peace.
Kazner talked to me about the Assembly of God church he’d been going to with a newfound friend. He said he asked them to pray for me, and they’ve prayed for me three times now.
Kazner is not a kid who shares his feelings or emotions… ever. He bottles everything up tight and puts a cork all the way in. I listened intently, and then I thanked him and told him how good this made me feel. I watched a happy expression lift on his face and I knew he was proud.
That evening, in bed, I shed tears thinking about how these prayers give Kaz hope. Thinking about how he courageously made himself vulnerable and opened up to a loving community of church-goers so that he could have an avenue to help me.
Twelve year old boys don’t have a lot of options. This twelve year old took the initiative. Kaz is afraid I am going to die, and so he’s getting on his bike and riding a mile across town to take the only action he can think of to help me heal.
My fear of dying is largely focused around not being here to continue guiding and shaping my boys into young men. I’m not one to consider the afterlife; I think about here and now. I think about the future and what it will mean to these boys if I’m not here for them. It may be that the following months will show that I’ve already put the foundation in place. That these boys are ready to step up and care for me, and make the choices that keep them healthy and empathetic. More than anything, I want them to be kind, gentle, thoughtful, respectful, playful… I want them to be good men.
The post What It Was Like to Tell My Sons That I Have Cancer appeared first on The Good Men Project.