My mother: My Hero, My rock, My inspiration, and at Times, the Source of My Greatest Pain
Like most survivors, life leading up to my cancer diagnosis was not smooth sailing. Just four months prior, my mother – herself a breast cancer survivor – was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. For years, I’d been feeling her slowly fade away, though I was largely unaware of what was happening. One year prior, a series of major life events led my family back to where we’d grown up, guided by our desire to be closer to home, to give us more support, and to focus on the relationships that truly mattered: family. Within three months of the move, my mother was officially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Everyone said to me: “It must now make sense to you why you moved back home.” But the truth was, home was the last place I wanted to be. I wanted to sprint in the opposite direction, as if I could outrun the devastating disease that was slowly taking away one of the most important people in my life.
In the months following, I shut down completely. Attempting to protect myself, I built a brick wall around my heart, numb and dissociated. I struggled to understand how and why life had brought me back here, uncertain of where to direct my anger and despair, and I longed to go back to the way things were. And as I sat in the void, life delivered its next blow. Lying in bed one morning, I felt a lump in my breast and within a month, I was diagnosed with Triple Negative Breast Cancer.
And there it was. The release, the opening of the flood gates. My own diagnosis and uncertainty of my future suddenly and instantaneously brought my life into focus. The tears that had been building for months – or years – came pouring out of me like a river. I laid on the ground, curled up in the fetal position, weeping for a future that I might never have, envisioning milestones that I might not make it to, and – finally – beginning to grieve the loss of my mother.
What would this journey look like, I wondered, without my mother by my side? And yet, in the miraculous way in which the universe positions you exactly where you’re meant to be, I was back at home, with my mother literally by my side. “It must now make sense to you why you moved back home,” came the whisper and wink of my own inner voice.
My breast cancer journey, as it turns out, would act as the catalyst that brought me back into my body, back into a relationship with my mother, and helped me redefine my own relationship with my then 4-year-old daughter.
Not only did my cancer diagnosis shift something deep inside of myself and offer me a reorientation towards living, but it also offered me radical presence and the opportunity to connect to the two most important women in my life: my mother and my daughter. I will never forget the experience of telling my mother that I had breast cancer. I showed up to that conversation confused about my role. Am I the daughter? Am I the mother/caretaker? Will she understand and comprehend the news that I am about to share? Will she offer me the support that I am seeking and needing? I steadied myself and calmly explained that my biopsy results had come back and that it was, indeed, cancer. And just like that, the world got quiet, and it was just her and me. I watched as her beautiful blue eyes – the ones I’d always wished I’d inherited – flooded with tears. In that moment of anchoring us so deeply into the present moment, I felt her more than I had in years. I felt her mothering presence, her pain, her fear, her love. It was just the two of us in a profoundly connective moment that held both beauty and tragedy in the very same breath.
Next came the task of sharing this news with my daughter. Unfortunately, I was no stranger to growing up with a sick parent. When I was seven, my mother was diagnosed with a rare kidney disease that for a brief time left my parents uncertain of her prognosis and future. Out of a desire to protect me, my parents kept this a secret from me for a long time. Despite them doing their best, I always knew that if faced with my own health issues as a mother, my approach would be different. After processing my own diagnosis, moving through some big feelings, and gathering age-appropriate children’s books, I shared the news with my 4-year old daughter and 6-year old son, keeping it as light and digestible as one can with such a topic. I explained that my port was the fairy door through which Minions (their favorite at the time) were the medicine that was traveling through to sweep out the disease and get me healthy again. As much as I like to believe this story was for them, it was just as much for me. From then on, at every chemo infusion, I envisioned the Minions joyfully arriving and sprinkling fairy dust as they swept me out like Cinderella.
One of the most profound and memorable moments occurred on the day that I shaved my head. It was on this day that the past (my mother), present (myself) and future (my daughter) collided into such clear focus and harmony. Despite the vivid pink and orange sunset illuminating the background, my only focus was on my daughter who watched intently as my curls – the ones I had worked so hard to finally love – fell to the ground. With each swipe of the razor, she approached with her broom to help clean up the pieces of my identity that now laid lifeless on the cement. I was awestruck by her strength, bravery, curiosity, beauty and resilience. As if right on cue, my mother returned home. There she stood with tears once again filling her bright blue eyes. And in that very moment, I felt more seen than ever before. Through both my daughter’s and my mother’s eyes, I saw my own strength and determination in the way that I showed up – desiring to set an example of strength for my daughter – while channeling my own mother’s warrior spirit, which was still very much alive.
While cancer is a terrible disease that tested me to my core, it is also the gift that offered me the opportunity to come together – multi-generationally – to connect, to love deeply, and to heal and crack open my heart.
I made it through my breast cancer with the support of family, my community, incredible doctors, and organizations like Sharsheret. For me, Sharsheret was a lifeline. One of the first people I spoke to about my diagnosis was an amazing clinical program manager who listened compassionately to my feelings and overwhelming emotions, held space for me, and addressed my concerns and needs. Within days, I was sent a care package of items to occupy my kids during treatment. They helped me coordinate financial assistance through their Best Face Forward program for both scalp cooling and eyebrow tattooing. And finally, they checked in on me throughout the course of treatment to see how I was doing and if any additional support or resources were needed. Sharsheret’s presence during my journey made me feel so much less alone. It is such an honor to be able to give back to the community by advocating for breast cancer awareness and sharing valuable resources.
This was originally published in Wildfire Magazine’s 2024 “Mothers and Daughters” issue.