So last year when Hashem tested our family by having Mom (me) run around for medical diagnoses for a lump she’d discovered, the fun (a.k.a. our family’s way of brightening up every situation) was on.

Now before I continue, I’d like to make an enormous disclaimer and state three things: Cancer is not fun. Cancer is really not fun. Cancer is really, really not fun. Cancer and fun cannot even be cousins. (Oops. I listed four things. Math is not my thing.)

By telling you about the positivity we displayed during our challenge, I am not in any way attempting to diminish the pain that cancer warriors and their families endure. It’s a vicious battle and everyone involved suffers tremendously. It’s the I-wouldn’t-wish-it-on-my-greatest-enemy kind of illness.

There is absolutely no right or wrong way to handle this challenge. This is simply a peek into the way we accepted it, and a story about one of the more humorous bumps in a very bumpy road.

The diagnosis, not kept a secret but not exactly announced on a loudspeaker, eventually became public knowledge. Project Who Knows was going strong. Bizarre comments (“You are sooo lucky. Not everyone is as lucky”), sympathetic nods, sudden street crossings, and excessive tongue-clucking were the language of the world telling us, “We already know.”

If a camp friend called out of the blue, or if a neighbor who had never in a million years exchanged a single syllable with my children started dispensing words of chizuk, my progeny added those names to the Who Knows list. (Of course, there were many times when my kids were convinced they’d received special treatment due to their status, only to later learn that the special-treatment givers had been blissfully unaware of the situation.)

Our policy of candidness was a blessing. I was juggling so many concerns; at least I didn't have to worry about bottled-up emotions bubbling inside a flask holding so much more than it could handle that it was at risk of exploding. My belief in open communication meant that my children constantly shared their thoughts and feelings with me.

During supper one night, in the initial stage of my illness when my appetite was still intact, my children predicted over their sesame chicken and rice what they believed would happen in the ensuing weeks.

“I wonder if my teacher knows already. She’ll treat me like the biggest neb now,” Bluma began as she picked the scallions out of the sesame sauce that glazed the pile of nuggets on her plate.

Sari, my then-twelfth grader, nodded as she served herself some more salad. “So this week we’re probably going to get a Shabbos package from organization XYZ. I remember when Breindy’s brother was sick. They got challos, cakes, and flowers delivered to their house every week. She’d bring the leftover cake to school every week because they sent soooo much.”

“We’ll probably get a toy and game delivery every other week,” Bluma carried on, smacking her lips. “When Yael’s father di-”

A nudge from Sari shushed her immediately. A fleeting fear of death filled their eyes.