mom

I’m sitting on the plane to France, ready for my two-month-long study abroad trip. I’m finally able to formulate my thoughts into a somewhat organized story. Although I don’t like using that word because to me, story sounds fictional, and this experience was very real. 

In March this year, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her mother had died of gastric cancer when I was six, and her sister was diagnosed with intestinal cancer a few months later. This news was broken to me right before my midterms at school. I was alone and vulnerable and stressed. And only told my roommates, who, although they helped me and consoled me, hadn’t gone through this same thing. I had no advice and no way of helping my mother because I go to school across the country. 

As summertime approached, a time I would usually use to unwind and prepare for my junior year of college, so did my mom’s surgery and recovery. This was something I could have never prepared for. 

Let me tell you about my mom. She is a light. Her smile beams and is infectious. She laughs loud and deep and likes to think positively. She’s caring; cooking and supplying and working for people as often as she can. Her love language is acts of service, and she shows it often. She loves her family and would kill for them if it ever came to it. Her favorite movie is The Sound of Music, and she’s an amazing chef. She gives the best hugs but cries easily. She is strong and doesn’t ever quit. She cares deeply about her image and reputation and always presents herself well. 

This is how I’ve always known her, all twenty years of my life, and I wouldn’t trade her for the world. 

When I arrived at the hospital after her surgery, I saw her in a way I’ve never seen her before. She lay in that hospital bed in a web of cords and tubes. She was lethargic and drowsy, speaking with a lump in her throat like she wasn’t entirely there. It broke my heart in a million pieces to see her in that way. All she said was “hi..” and I nearly threw up. She had drains attached to her that we had to empty two to three times a day for the next few weeks; she had layers of gauze and padding on her chest in a surgical bra, covering and protecting her stitches. Seeing my dad hold her hand was almost worse; I’ve only seen him cry one other time in my life, and that was when his mother died. 

My dad, however, lives and works in a different state, so after the first five days, my mom was fully my responsibility. I was in charge of everything she once was in charge of, which was everything. She made a room for herself in our guest bedroom downstairs before her surgery, which I think didn’t help because she couldn’t even go back to her bedroom. Her sense of normalcy was shot. She was able to move around, but only from one room to another. I could drive her places, but after fifteen minutes she was fatigued. We spent days eating food I called in and picked up while sitting on the couch watching movies no one’s ever heard of. And no one came over. On my mom’s side, she didn’t want people to see her that way; she couldn’t shower with the drains attached to her, so she didn’t for two and a half weeks. On my side, the city of Las Vegas had essentially alienated me. I had no one there that I considered a true friend except for one, but even then she was getting ready for her first year of college, and we were in very different places in our lives. At least that’s the excuse I’m choosing to believe. Every day felt a week long, and my only escape was going to the gym for an hour. I couldn’t leave for long since my mom couldn’t lift her arms and no one else was available. This was my job. 

I would have taken care of my mom even if she didn’t want anyone to; that’s not the issue. I knew this was something she shouldn’t have to thank me for; it’s expected, and even if it wasn’t, I would have done it anyway. I knew I was appreciated and needed, but nobody verbalized it. I knew it, and they knew it, but that wasn’t what was important at the time. What was important was getting my mom’s Gatorade from the fridge and making sure she was sustaining herself. This eventually included showering her so that she could feel the smallest bit clean and new. 

Everyday mundane and depressing; I wondered what I needed. I knew I needed something or someone. What I wanted was someone to hug and to hold me, but I didn’t have that. My roommates were across the country, my best friend was too busy for me, and my mom needed consoling more than I did. I craved understanding and stability, because not only was this disrupting my current life, it also made me unsure of what my future held as well. Cancer seems to run deep in our genetics, despite tests saying this type of cancer wasn’t genetic. But every woman was getting it, and one died because of it. I thought about how I was experiencing one part of this dichotomy, while my mom was now living both. She was once the one watching her mother suffer and eventually die, and now, even though less severe, it felt as though I was in her place and she in her mother’s. I wondered if this cycle would continue with me. I asked myself a lot of questions. Would I be able to handle that? Was that inevitable? Would I want to put someone in my position of mourning someone while they were still alive? I don’t know. I don’t know the answer to any of these questions. 

My mom is currently still recovering. She drives herself places, but just to the park or to lunch. She makes her own coffee and makes her own dinners, never mind that she’s just heating something premade. She is going through the expansion process, preparing for reconstruction. And even though I’m many miles away now, her voice doesn’t sound as vibrant as it used to, and I know that’s because she is tired and lonely. My heart shatters every time I pick up the phone, but I know all of her would shatter if I didn’t, so I answer every time, without fail. I call her often, and if she doesn’t answer, I call again. I do this because I know she likes to feel needed. She always has been, and she doesn’t want to stop now. 

So even as I am embarking on something exciting, I’m leaving someone that I know would be better off if someone was there with her. That someone being me because my dad has an adult job that is paying for treatments and bills, and because my brother is a college senior who needs to graduate or his head will explode. So I take on the responsibility of being my mom’s confidant, regardless of if I am experiencing my own life and dealing with the mental repercussions on my own. I am my mother’s daughter anyway, sacrificing myself to care for others. 

As I sit on this plane for the next five hours, I try to take a moment and be selfish and be excited that I have two months of freedom. But in my case, I’m not free. Because I am a phone call away, and people would be calling and texting me anyway, but now I have guilt making me text and call back as soon as I see it. 

This isn’t a sob story, and my reluctance to share with others at first was because I didn’t want people walking on eggshells around me. I realize now that sharing my experience could help others going through something similar. Whether you find comfort in what I’ve said or you think I’m a complete idiot, I hope me sharing served you in some way, shape, or form.