Trigger Warning: This Q&A contains content about cancer in children.
The first time I read a piece by Amy McHugh, her writing hit me like a truck. She was willing to go deep into a topic that no one wants to discuss: kids and cancer. Every parent’s worst nightmare.
“The real story of what it’s like to live on the 6th floor of Boston Children’s Hospital with a daughter who has stage 4 neuroblastoma, isn’t going to run in a mainstream publication,” Amy says. “So, my goal has been to connect with others who’ve been through trauma and who are struggling to move forward. Often it’s a lonely place that we don’t talk about, so we’re left thinking that we’re the only one who’s had a terrible thought or snapped under the pressure of maintaining appearances. I’m not writing only for moms who’ve had a kid with cancer because that’s such a small number of people. I want to cast a wide net and use my experience so readers can see themselves — struggling with fear, overwhelmed by grief, consumed by guilt.”
Amy got her Master of Fine Arts degree from the University of New Hampshire in 2001. Then she waited tables on Cape Cod. With two teachers for parents, Amy naturally fell into teaching. She taught freshman college English, then high school, and eventually landed as a librarian.
Now, she writes about parenting, mental health, loss, grief, and new beginnings. I asked her how she manages to share stories that have a universal takeaway from the isolating experience of having a 4-year-old child with a rare nerve cancer.
I know you have an English and teaching background, but how did you get started writing essays for publication?
When my youngest daughter, Emily, got sick a month before her fourth birthday, I started a blog to update friends and family (and strangers!) on her progress and setbacks. It was a way to show people how awful it was for a kid to go through cancer and the ripple effect it had on all aspects of our lives. People were uncomfortable and fascinated and told me to keep writing about it, but after she finished treatment, I stopped blogging. Even though Emily is now a healthy and normal teenager, during the past year, I found myself longing to give readers a glimpse into that stigmatic world and wanting to demystify and humanize it. But I had no idea how to get my writing published. Then I joined UPOD in March 2022. (Side Note: UPOD, Under Promise. Over Deliver, is THE BOMB. If you don’t know about this organization, formed by my very first writing instructor, David Hochman, stop what you’re doing right now and check it out.)
Can you tell me a little bit about what it’s like to revisit that time in your life more than a decade later?
Emily spent 300 days in the hospital. When she was sick, I started a Caring Bridge blog to update our friends and family on Emily’s health. I cringe when I read it now. There was so much anger. Now, when I see a mom writing about her child’s cancer as it’s happening in real time I get annoyed with myself for not publishing stories about my experiences with Emily sooner. Then I stop and realize, I had nothing to offer the world at that point. I was in the trenches fighting. The only goal was survival. It wasn’t until a few years ago that I came to a place where I developed some perspective. Now, when I want to revisit that time in my life to craft an essay, I just re-read those entries and I’m right back on the 6th floor of Boston Children’s Hospital.
One of the things I focus on in my essay classes is how to contain really big stories. You have pulled that off in multiple pieces related to Emily’s cancer battle, which I imagine could be a full memoir. In one essay, you focus on running for self-care. In another, the storyline centers around saving Christmas. Can you tell me a little bit about how you’ve crafted slice-of-life stories from such a transformative life experience?
Well, first, I am writing a memoir, and figuring out what the takeaway is for the book is my biggest challenge. But breaking it down into bite-sized pieces, which is what publishing essays makes me do, has been extremely beneficial to me, not only in terms of how to frame the memoir but also in helping me identify universal themes. I’m able to see which parts of the experience people latch on to and what they want to know more about. So, for example, I learned that people really like to read about my marriage — how did these two people go through this and make it to the other side? The other thing that helps with these contained stories is that, yes, there’s a sick kid, but that’s not the focus of the piece. And the reader learns right off the bat that she lived, so that makes it more palatable in some way.
My (Amy P’s) takeaway: When stage 4 cancer happens to a child; it doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Every person in the family is affected in some way. To contain that HUGE story, Amy can write separate pieces about every aspect of the experience. A few that jumped out for me:
- How Emily’s cancer affected her older sister, Isabelle (Amy just published that one for The Washington Post).
- How it affected her mom, who in true Yankee form prefers to keep family crises close to the vest.
- Maybe even how Obi, a Goldendoodle they got when Emily finished treatment, healed her girls in ways that Amy couldn’t.
- She can detail her own love affair with magical thinking during this time period — I just need to get Emily into the car. Emily doesn’t have cancer in the car. She has cancer in this hospital room.
- And later, she can explore how her anger shifted to gratitude in 2018 when her friend’s 7-year-old son died from what was initially stage 2 neuroblastoma; a more forgiving diagnosis than Emily’s.
As I was prepping to interview you for this newsletter I realized you penned an essay about jumping into the ocean every day for one year. I remembered reading that story when it first came out. Can you tell me more about that? What inspired that and how did you decide to write about it?
I live right near the beach. I used to swim in the mornings until mid-October and take a break for the winter. But then I began noticing this tiny frail woman jumping in the water, year-round. I thought if that tiny woman can do it, I can do it … I’m just going to try to keep doing it every day. Until I can’t. I made it a full year. Being in the water is so invigorating; almost like a drug. Everything feels better; the world feels like a better place. But even though I know how good I feel after I take a dunk, I never want to get into that cold water. I have to mentally shift my perspective on it with a lot of self-talk. So when I’m in the car, l say to myself, All you have to do is go in and come back out. You don’t have to stay in for 10 minutes. You can just go dunk yourself and come up. Then, once I get in, I realize I’m fine.
Amy P’s take: It sounds a whole lot like writing.
Let’s talk technical. How do you write? With pen and paper? On a computer? A digital journal?
When I’m writing for myself, I always prefer to write with pen and paper. I LOVE writing in purple and green gel pens, and I use a spiral notebook with lines (no fancy bound books for me). About 90% of the time, I write in bed before I read or watch “Call the Midwife,” a series I’ve watched 5 (!!!) times over. The other 10%, I write at my desk when I have an idea but need to see it and feel it on the paper as I try to figure out what I’m trying to say. Also I have a million tiny pieces of paper, receipts, and ripped pieces of paper from the fridge with ideas. Sometimes they turn into things, most of the time, they do not.
|
|
|
|
|