ABSTRACT
The faces of the people in my office were pale. Not just the typical New England white of their stalwart, French-Anglo culture, but withdrawn and drained. I sensed a tension, the protective type, as my typical joining questions were met with short, quiet answers from the two, tall, athletic, teenage boys. After several minutes, the forty-year-old mother with the new diagnosis of breast cancer broke the silence by saying, somewhat loudly, “I’m still here and you boys are just going to have to get used to the idea of growing up.” New England pragmatism had joined us and would open the door to this family’s journey with cancer.
