In the nanosecond in October 2017 after I received my diagnosis—Langerhans cell histiocytosis, a very rare form of cancer in adults—my emotional defense switch activated.
I didn’t want or need to be the focus of morbid chatter or even well-intended conversation. I wanted to avoid the awkwardness that often accompanies interactions with people who learn you have cancer and fear uttering the wrong word.
I was going to avoid all of that. I was 57 years old. Cancer was going to be my secret, my fight.
I would, of course, tell a small group of close family and friends. I was going to need logistical help getting my son, Harry, to and from school, hockey practices and games.
But Harry didn’t need to know about the cancer, I told myself. He was just a 12-year-old kid. He should be enjoying his childhood, not fretting over an obscure cancer his dad had. I wanted to protect him. The decision was made.
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