*Author’s Note:*
I originally wrote this piece in 2025 for a college course that asked us to reflect on a profound experience in our lives. I chose to write about my mother, who passed away in December 2015 after a battle with metastatic breast cancer. Even now, years after losing her, I still find myself somewhere between grief, anger, understanding, and gratitude. Some days, all four. This is a part of my life unfolding.
It was a beautiful Thanksgiving afternoon, sunlight streaming through the window blinds. The smell of turkey, ham, and mashed potatoes wafted into the living room, accompanied by the clattering of pots and pans as my husband used every dish possible to prepare the feast. She was late, again, but burst through the doors with a glowing smile and a hearty laugh. The kids ran to her, arms outstretched and overjoyed to see her. I smiled and watched as she bent down to hug each child, all five of them, and right then I felt my happiness turn to terror.
I didn’t know what struck me with terror at that moment, not consciously, anyway. But as time slowed down and the hugs with the kids lasted a bit longer, I saw it. This monster. This “thing” that I would grow to hate. And it was right there. Amongst all of the people I loved more than life itself. And then that terror turned to anger.
“What happened to your head?” I asked, concerned with a tinge of accusation.
“Oh, it’s likely just a cyst,” my mom replied over the excited chatter of the kids excited to see their Babbi.
“How long has it been there?”
“A few weeks, at most. I really just started noticing it the other day.”
I stood there stunned. I didn’t know what it was, but it felt wrong.
My mind whooshed back to four and a half years prior. I had just three kids at the time as the twins weren’t born yet, and we were returning from a friend’s house in Pennsylvania. There was an accident on the expressway coming into Illinois, forcing traffic to a crawl. I was exhausted and knew I wouldn’t make the additional 2 ½ hour drive home, so I called my mom to ask if I could stay the night with the kids. “Of course!” was her enthusiastic reply. Thirty minutes later, I was at her house and it was pitch black out. I quietly carried each of my kids into the house and tucked them into bed. When the last one was tucked in, I turned to my mom. She started telling me about all of her most recent adventures. She had wanderlust. She always needed to travel. Travel and sing. That was her life. That’s what gave her life. That energetic glow of someone who is truly happy. Traveling and singing. I loved having those quiet moments with my mom.
But as we were talking, I noticed her massaging the side of her breast. “Everything ok?” I asked, concerned.
“Yeah, I found a really small lump in my breast but it seems to have gone away. Probably a clogged duct,” she half-heartedly responded.
“Unless you had a baby recently I don’t know about, you shouldn’t have a clogged duct. You should get that looked at.”
She smiled at me reassuringly and said, “I’ll have it looked at if it gets worse.” I followed up with her a few times after that and she reassured me that there was nothing to worry about so I pushed the fear to the far recesses of my mind.
Until now. Now, all of that came rushing back and I got angry. “Did you ever go get that lump in your breast checked out?”
She looked at me startled and just replied, “It’s just a cyst. I will go see the dermatologist and have it dealt with. Don’t worry about it.”
She then was dragged into the other room by the gang of kids all vying for her attention or a spot on her lap. The rest of the day dragged on. The food was great, the company even better, but I could not get that “thing” out of my head. I lost sleep each night. I tossed and turned. Running through possibilities over and over in my mind.
I called my mom every day, “Did you make an appointment yet?”
“No, but I will!” was always her response. I didn’t see her until Christmas and when I did, my heart stopped beating for a brief second. That “thing” was double the size. It was growing at an alarming rate.
“When are you going to get that looked at? It’s twice as big as it was before.”
“Oh, it’s not grown that much. I’ll make an appointment soon.”
I got angry. “You’ve been saying that for the past month, when are you going to have someone look at that?”
She looked at me with the mom look before responding, “I will make an appointment when I have time.”
And as the stubborn child I have always been, I planted my feet, crossed my arms and shot back, “You will make an appointment tomorrow or I will make one for you. Cysts don’t grow at this alarming rate, tumors do. What are you waiting for?”
She sighed, “I’m sure you’re just overreacting. It’ll be fine.”
It’s been nearly twelve years since that day. Almost ten years since she took her last breath. I miss her just as much today as I did then. Really, I started missing her as soon as the word “cancer” was spoken by the doctor. I missed her the moment I took her to the hospital to deal with the pain of the cancer that had metastasized to her bones, growing up into her spinal column and turning this vivacious, loving, and energetic woman into a shell of who she used to be. Her days were filled with pain. And I was powerless to stop it.
I medicated her heavily, as advised by the hospice care team. And I sat there, when all of the kids were in school, and cried my heart out. I crawled into the hospital bed with her and snuggled in. She was weak and frail, but I still felt a sense of protection there. She couldn’t hug me anymore and she couldn’t reassure me that everything was fine, but her strength still came through.
She was right, though. Everything is fine. Different, for sure, but fine. My memories keep her alive and my kids remind me of small pieces of her, as they all have kept a part of her with them. And, yes, everything is fine.
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