Navigating the Silent Struggles of Siblings of Childhood Cancer Patients

The day Finley received his diagnosis, our carefully constructed world fractured. It wasn't a gentle crack, but a seismic shift that instantly pulled us into an unfamiliar orbit of sterile hospital corridors, hushed treatment rooms, and an endless labyrinth of waiting lists. Every waking moment, every conversation, every thought became inescapably tethered to his cancer, a relentless focal point that consumed our family's energy and attention.

Yet, amidst this all-consuming storm, another child stood quietly in the periphery, observing. Skyelar, our five-year-old, the big brother. He was a silent witness to the frantic exits and exhausted returns, his small ears straining to decipher the hushed, urgent tones discussing blood counts and scan results. His familiar routines, once so comforting and predictable, became elastic, bending and stretching to accommodate the unrelenting demands of hospital appointments and unexpected crises. His favourite toys, once the centre of his universe, lay untouched, patiently waiting for a focus that had irrevocably shifted elsewhere.

Skyelar, through no fault of his own, transitioned into what many in our situation call the "glass sibling." He was physically present, a warm, breathing body in our home, but emotionally, he became translucent, almost unseen. It wasn't that he was forgotten—never that, not for a single moment—but he became transparent under the overwhelming, crushing weight of cancer’s pervasive demands. Our love for him was unwavering, but the sheer enormity of Finley’s illness created an unintentional veil, making it difficult to fully perceive his own quiet struggle.

Sometimes, his unspoken distress manifested in subtle, almost imperceptible ways. A sudden burst of acting out, a desperate plea for attention that we, in our weary state, sometimes misinterpret as naughtiness. He would ask poignant, unanswerable questions about Finley's illness, questions that tore at our hearts because we simply didn't have the words or the answers to soothe his childish anxieties. Or, conversely, he would retreat into himself, sitting quietly, his bright eyes absorbing far more than we, consumed by Finley's immediate needs, ever truly realised. Other times, he bore his emotional burden with a remarkable, heartbreaking silence, carrying it without a single complaint or outward sign of distress.

We learned, often through painful trial and error, that being parents navigating a childhood cancer diagnosis meant so much more than solely caring for the sick child. It meant a desperate, conscious effort to carve out time, even if only five minutes, to acknowledge Skyelar’s existence, his feelings, his ongoing presence. It was about finding those small, precious windows to let him know, with every fibre of our being: you matter too.

It could be as simple as an extra-long cuddle before bedtime, a quiet moment of shared intimacy that reassured him of his place in our hearts. Or a cheerful, unhurried morning walk to preschool, a sliver of normalcy amidst the chaos, where our attention was solely, completely, on him. Most profoundly, it was about finding the courage and the words to say out loud: this is hard for you as well, Skyelar, and we see it. We see your sadness, your confusion, your loneliness. We see you.

Skyelar is not invisible. He is a vibrant, sensitive boy whose young life irrevocably tilted alongside his brother’s. He is an integral, undeniable part of this brutal fight, a quiet soldier on the home front. And more than anyone, he deserves to be seen, acknowledged, and cherished in every single step of it. His resilience, his silent strength, his unwavering love for his brother are just as profound as Finley’s courage, and they deserve equal recognition.