How Julie Crawshay Talks to Her Kids About Brain Cancer
Of all the hard conversations that came with Nic's Glioblastoma diagnosis, none frightened me more than the ones I would have to have with our children. As a mother, my instinct was to shield them. As Julie Crawshay, the person walking this road every day, I slowly learned that honesty, offered gently, protects children far more than silence ever could.
I am not an expert. I am simply a Sydney mum figuring it out one tea-time question at a time. But there are a few things I have come to trust, and I want to share them for any caregiver sitting where I once sat, wondering how on earth to begin.
Telling the Truth in Small, Honest Pieces
Early on I wanted to explain everything at once, to get the whole painful story out and be done. That was my need, not theirs. Children take in difficult news in layers, and they will ask for the next piece when they are ready for it. So I answer the question in front of me, and no more.
When my youngest asked whether Daddy's head was sore, I said yes, sometimes, and that clever doctors were helping him. I used the real words too, brain cancer, because I did not want them hearing something frightening elsewhere and feeling I had hidden it. GBM is a hard word for adults, let alone little ones, so I kept it simple and true.
- I let them lead with their questions rather than flooding them with facts.
- I named feelings out loud, so sadness and worry felt allowed, not shameful.
- I reassured them that none of this was their fault, and that they would always be cared for.
Making Room for Normal Days
One of the kindest things I have learned is that children need ordinary joy right in the middle of hard seasons. They need to build cubbies, argue over the last biscuit, and belly-laugh at silly jokes. Grief and giggles can share the same afternoon, and letting them coexist has been healing for all of us.
I try to keep our Sydney routines steady, the walk to school, Friday movie nights, weekend trips to the beach. Predictability tells them the world is still holding. When Nic has a good day, we celebrate it fully. When he does not, we soften the schedule and lean on the people who love us.
I also let my children see me feel things. I used to think a strong mother never cried in front of her kids. Now I believe a strong caregiver shows them that big feelings are survivable. When they see me cry and then carry on, they learn they can too.
If you are a fellow caregiver dreading these conversations, please be gentle with yourself. There is no perfect script. Your children do not need a flawless explanation; they need your honest, loving presence. That, I have found, is the thing they remember most.
We are still writing this story, our family of ordinary courage, one truthful conversation at a time. And somehow, in the telling, we have grown closer than I ever imagined.
— Julie Crawshay, Sydney