I finally told my son, Nick, that I had prostate cancer. We sat around the kitchen counter at breakfast. It was a full week after my diagnosis. I wasn’t sure how Nick’d take it. He’s fifteen. We’re real close. I waited the week until I’d made a treatment decision. My intent was to be reassuring, to be able to tell him with absolute certainty that everything would be just fine. I had a plan – eight weeks of radiation. We’d be okay. Not to worry.
“Hey, I won’t even lose my hair,” I told him, and smiled. He cut his waffles. Then I asked, “Any questions…. anything at all you want to know?”
He poured some syrup and thought for a long moment and finally looked up at me.
“Is there going to be any mood swings?”
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