Breaking the News to Your Child
It is most imperative to facilitate direct communication between you and your child when informing them of your diagnosis. Sit them down in a comfortable place, and explain the situation in a calm and even tone if at all possible. Have the discussion when you have given yourself a moment to process, but do not wait so long as to alienate your child and leave them feeling excluded.
It is helpful to relate the situation using an age-appropriate analogy, depending on the child. For example, you may relate your experience to a movie they have seen, or a show they are acquainted with. Allow the child time to process, and explain what the future holds and potential treatment plans if that is an option for you. Ensure there is ample time for questions.
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“Cancer?”
Remus is bending down to slip on a pair of woolen stockings when the word assaults his ears. He pauses, blinks. Offhandedly, he thumbs the knitted seams of his stockings. That can’t be right. He must’ve misheard.
“What?”
Remus’s mind is buzzing. His Ma made his stockings for him. Her hands are strong, and steady, and not ridden with tumors and other horrible things that happen when one has cancer, such as being sick or losing all of your hair or turning green or whatever the fuck it is that sickly people- not his Ma, mind you- become.
“Remus,” Hope murmurs, her hands shaking. She knows that you do not break news like this to your son while he is trying to slip his trainers on. The singular book she found out at the local library on parenting with terminal illness could probably tell you that. But in her defense, what was she to do? She told Remus the discussion was serious. He thought it had to do with Lyall, and decided to make a clean getaway. “Did you hear me?”
“Ma,” Remus says, faintly. He blinks dumbly. “I need to go. Sirius is expecting me.”
Cancer. What a ridiculous thought! It’s a muggle disease! Sure, she’s a muggle, but not one of those. She knows about magic. Hell, she married a bloody wizard! Where the fuck is his Da, anyway?
The more pressing matter is Sirius. Remus’s new boyfriend. They’re together now, and they do romantic coupley things, such as make fun of other couples for doing romantic coupley things. Sirius always smells of cigarettes, and his hands really are quite soft, if you ever get the chance to feel them.
Just last week, at the start of summer of their Sixth Year, Remus brought Sirius home, and watched as Sirius squirmed uncomfortably on the Lupin’s magenta velvet sofa. His Da hated Sirius (or more so, what that means for Remus), so naturally, Remus hates his Da.
They never really see eye to eye, anyway. Not that Remus wants to, but they always get into these awful shouting matches. Their strongest shared connection is currently telling Remus she has cancer.
“Ma, that’s not-“ Remus scrubs a hand over his face. He opens his mouth, to say something. Anything. “No, you don’t.”
This is all too much for Hope, who wrings her hands in frustration. Her lips are pinched, pulling her face into an unpleasant wince. Fuck the book. “Listen to me, Remus. I have cancer. It’s in my lungs, but by now it’s traveled into my brain and- and my liver. I’m-I’m sick, baby.”
“No,” Remus says again, and for some odd reason, his mind jumps to Sirius, and what he’s going to say when Remus explains this highly hilarious, highly outrageous interaction with him.
Pffft, how funny. Your mum? Cancer? I just met her last week, and she loved me! You can’t have cancer and meet your son’s boyfriend, everyone knows that!
Or, that’s what Remus wishes he’d say. More likely, Sirius would cock his head to one side, utterly confused, and ask, What’s cancer?
“What…” Remus gesticulates weakly, feeling rather wobbly and absurd. His head feels as though it’s been gutted and stuffed with mothballs. “Give me proof, please.”
Hope sighs, and hands Remus a letter. It’s typed on hospital stationary. Ffydd Presbyterian. It’s a small hospital, the closest one within reach by the countryside. Remus remembers being brought there once, when he was very little, after a full moon. He’d nearly clawed a hole into his chest. His parents carried his limp form in, screaming. Begging for help.
Remus wracks his brain for what Ffydd stands for in Welsh, but cannot place it.
The letter is clinical enough. It’s clearly impersonal and detached, which Remus is annoyed by, seeing as they really are quite small of a hospital. Honestly, how many letters could they possibly send daily?
May 10th, 1975
Dear Mrs. Lupin,
It is advised that you visit us as soon as possible. As you are aware, you presented with shortness of breath and persistent cough at our initial visit. X Rays were performed to rule out pneumonia, and it was there that masses were discovered on both lungs. At your following visit, a biopsy and blood examination was performed. The results read as follows:
Lung cancer, stage four
Metastasis in the brain and liver present
Dr. Broughan requests that you see him as soon as possible.
Warm regards,
Ffydd Presbyterian Hospital
Warm regards? Who the fuck writes warm regards in a letter like this? Remus has half a mind to march up there right now and knock some sense into the writer. Or at least demand they be put through extensive sensitivity training. Honestly.
Remus reads the letter once. Then again, eyes darting across the weighty cardstock, looking for some inaccuracy, some indication that this isn’t his Ma.
His eyes land on the date. May 10th. Briefly, Remus’s mind crosses the idea that two months before the letter was sent, Remus was drinking firewhiskey with his friends, hooting with laughter, a birthday hat strapped securely by the chin.
And then he remembers that it is no longer May, but June.
“Ma.” His voice comes out whiny and childish. “You got this letter nearly a month ago, and are just telling me now?”
Remus wants to stamp his foot. He rubs his eyes with his fists, roughly, like a child. But no tears come out.
“Ma,” he says again, feeling like a toddler.
Then he stops. This letter can’t be right. It simply can’t . This letter was meant for someone else, some other poor soul, and got sent to his Ma instead. Merlin, isn’t it good that Remus returned when he did? His Ma’s been panicked over a letter that’s a complete hoax! Someone else in the universe is dying. But not Hope Lupin.
Robotically, Remus reaches for his cloak. He slips on his trainers, what he’d been trying to do anyway, before this big debacle. Hope looks at Remus. She is a mixture of furious and devastated.
“Where,” she croaks, closing her eyes slightly, “the fuck do you think you’re going, Remus?”
“To sort this shite out,” Remus snaps back. “It’s a bloody mistake, it is. This Dr. Broughan bloke has made some kind of mistake. Idiot.”
Hope squeezes her eyes closed very tightly, so her crowd feet are more visible now than ever. Her lips are still pinched. “Remus, you get your arse back her right now. You will not make a fool of yourself to my oncologist.”
Remus stops, blinking stupidly. Hope glares at him. “Take your trainers off, go on.”
Remus does so, toeing off his trainers that were on for all but two seconds. Begrudgingly, of course, but he never disobeys.
“Good,” Hope sniffs, rubbing her temples. “Now come here, so I can hold my baby.”
“Ma.” Remus’s voice cracks. He hates her; For giving up so easily, for not fighting that git Broughan, for not demanding another blood test, for not being well.
He trudges to her, arms outstretched, just like he always has. Except now he’s looming over her and she looks smaller and more scared than she’s ever looked. He feels his face contort into something awfully hideous. The scars on his cheek and across the bridge of his nose are pulled at as he weeps and stumbles towards her. “No, Ma.”
Remus feels as though he’s going to be sick. He sniffles, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Please.”
Remus doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking for. Anything but this.
“Ma,” he whines, feeling hot tears seep against her bony shoulder. “No. You- you can’t. Please.”
Remus has been a spoiled rotten, he presumes. Because he honestly stands there and continues to beg her, over and over. His Ma continues to cry, and shake her head, and stroke his curls. And Remus continues to beg, and cry.
“Please,” Remus whines, louder, louder, until he's howling, grabbing for her cardigan. He knows he’s hurting his Ma, pleading with her over something she can’t help. But he can’t stop. Ugly, animal sobs tear through his throat. “Ma, you can’t. Please.”
Hope shakes her head, reaching forward to slow the cascade of tears with her trembling sleeve. Remus hates her.
Hope Lupin has always given her son what he wants. Why can she not give him this?