I finally told my son the truth about cancer

He holds my face in his palms. He does that when having my attention is of utmost importance.

He learned about eye contact in school. Most of us just get it: Want to show someone you're paying attention? Make eye contact. But my 10-year-old son was not wired that way. Finn had a specialist who coached his family members to say, "Find my eyes." And then he practiced so often that he learned — finding eyes is what you do when something is important.

He holds my face. He finds my eyes. He asks me, "Your cancer is not going to make you die, right?"

The gap between hearing his question and knowing how to respond is as deep and wide as the Grand Canyon.

I'm flooded with thoughts and possible ways to respond. I have stage IV lung cancer, the number-one killer of all cancers. I know anything is possible.

I also know it's a crappy diagnosis.

This is an important moment with Finn. I know the words I choose really matter.

I also know this is hell.

I thought I was sick all day today. To be honest, I've been sick a lot lately.

I started coughing last week. Not very much, but when I do it's a cough like a smoker's. I don't smoke and, at 47, I'm far too young to have a cough like this.

My hip hurts again. I run out of breath easily.

I tell myself it's because I've been more active. I tell myself it's an emotional manifestation of fear — this is the same week as my bi-annual brain scan and quarterly chest scan.

No matter what I tell myself, I also know I might be dying of cancer.

At the same time, something profound is happening to me. I am living. Feeling love. Saying yes. Showing up. Making art. I'm living so actively in the present that there's very little time for pondering the future.

I want to believe beating cancer is possible. I want to believe miracles are possible.

I just don't want to be a fool full of false hope.

I want to answer Finn's question honestly. But the answer is so complicated.

There are many paths out of hellish situations like this one. If you aren't careful, most will lead you right back. The problem is that hurt, deception and false hope are the only choices I can imagine.

I choose hurt.

I tell him: "Someday I will probably die from cancer."

When Finn gets sad, tears pool in his eyes, as if resisting release. After the tears come, he sobs and sobs. I hold him and let him absorb this terrible information. I allow him time to feel it.

I also try to comfort him. I tell him I might live until he's a grown-up. I tell him some people believe in miracles.

But I'm only backpedaling.

He's so solid and so broken all at once. He asks, "Have you been keeping this secret from me all this time?"

That hits me.

Finn, you deserve as much, possibly more, than what I've been sharing with friends. Instead I have been telling you very little and letting you watch "Tom and Jerry" more than you should.

I told myself I was committed to telling Finn the "truth." In reality I was telling him stories woven with nuggets of truth.

Until now.

Telling Finn the truth probably wasn't the easiest path out of hell, the hell this reality has dumped upon us. But I can't imagine a "right" way to talk with a 10-year-old about terminal illness.

The next morning, Finn sits as close to me as he can. "I want to sit close, because some day you might die," he says.

In this solid, broken moment I feel grateful to put my arms around this precious soul. I am sorry to cause this hurt, but I am so glad to be here, in hell, with him.

Colleen Cook is a student of theology, arts and spirituality. Read more of her writing at handfastedtotruth.blogspot.com.

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