In February, a couple of months before my 40th birthday, I began experiencing swelling and pain in my left breast. Initially, I attributed it to the various effects of perimenopause. However, as the months passed, my symptoms worsened. In May, I finally arranged for a mammogram, fearing the worst. Unfortunately, getting an appointment for a biopsy proved to be much more difficult than I anticipated. When I did manage to secure an appointment, I brought along my sister, overwhelmed by the certainty that something was seriously wrong.
It was devastating to have my fears confirmed. The radiologist expressed great concern about the mass in my breast and lymph nodes, but the hospital couldn’t offer me a biopsy for several weeks. Despite the limited information available to me, it was clear that I had cancer. The radiologist referred me to a nurse practitioner who attempted to piece together the fragments of my life.
Through tears, I pleaded with her, “I can’t wait two weeks for a biopsy. I’m willing to go anywhere, anytime.” She had been distant and distracted, but in that moment, she looked up at me and said, “That’s helpful. Many mothers have scheduling conflicts due to their kids’ activities.” It was difficult to determine whether she was judging my lack of concern for my children’s extracurriculars or judging those other mothers. Either way, I couldn’t help but judge them myself. As a social worker, I had spent years advocating for the importance of routine in a child’s life. However, what did it matter if those children got to soccer practice if their mothers were no longer alive?
“My sister and I need a biopsy,” my sister asserted firmly. The nurse promised to do what she could.
My sister and I left the hospital, stunned by the confirmation of my worst fears, yet still knowing very little about my diagnosis or prognosis. As we walked through a posh Boston suburb, we passed by a Kumon tutoring center on our way to an expensive coffee shop. Sitting outside, we overheard a conversation among a young person and two older individuals, their voices dominant and relentless. We were silent, weighed down by our own grief. My mind kept returning to the mothers rushing to practice or tournaments, or facilitating their children’s academic enrichment, all while their cancers silently grew within them. I resented the college student’s self-centered conversation about a topic of no interest to me.
Amid my anger, my thoughts were consumed by my children. My oldest daughter, ten years old and already quite perceptive, and my younger son, five years old, endearing with his round cheeks and lisp, still undecided about the existence of fairies. The thought of them living without my care was unbearable. Their vulnerability overpowered my own pain and fear for my body and my life.
In the following weeks, I underwent a biopsy, found an oncologist, and received a diagnosis and treatment plan. The cancer was aggressive but had not spread to vital organs or bones. The tumor was likely to respond to treatment. My children would likely keep their mother, but not before I endured a year of trial by fire: chemotherapy, a mastectomy, daily radiation, and regular drug therapy.
My life crumbled around me, and my husband’s worried expression became permanent. Two years ago, after a surgery, he had taken the children away so that I could recover in peace. We both knew he would do the same during the coming months. I had to accept this arrangement again and again.
Treatment began in June, and quickly, I felt awful. Chemotherapy poisons not only the cancer but also the body, affecting the mouth, nose, stomach, bone marrow, and joints. I spent most of my time in bed, occasionally allowing my children to jump on it. Other times, I asked them to leave. The yearning to feel less terrible was stronger than any desire I had ever experienced, surpassing even lust and the urge to protect my babies.
Living in a small town called Providence, I unexpectedly discovered that my daughter’s friend’s mother’s partner was an acupuncturist who specialized in helping chemotherapy patients. I managed to schedule an appointment during my daughter’s piano lesson. I dropped her off, realizing that the acupuncture office was located below her music school. As I lay on the table, the sound of piano music floated down from above. Was it my daughter playing? I wasn’t sure; I didn’t always pay close attention to her practicing at home. I had missed her recital due to the effects of chemotherapy.
To fully benefit from acupuncture, one must relax. Yet, I was anything but relaxed. My mind was filled with questions. Was that my daughter playing? Was she sad that I missed her recital? A friend had brought her a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, soothing my guilt. But what did it truly mean to her? Was my daughter thinking of me at that moment? Was she worrying about me? Could her worries permeate the ceiling like a leak? How would my children survive the impact on their motherhood? How would they cope without predictable routines and evenings? The music consumed me, and I had to know if it was my daughter.
As I ran my fingers along the edge of the pale-green sheet covering my body, it felt reminiscent of a shroud or a morgue covering. It was impossible not to think of my daughter.
Just before starting chemotherapy, my friend Margaret visited me and sat on my blue couch. She recounted a cautionary tale from when she was undergoing treatment for ovarian cancer two years prior. She had been feeling the effects of chemo but noticed a basket of clean laundry that demanded attention, symbolizing caretaking and the demands of motherhood. So, she pushed aside her exhaustion and folded the laundry. It took her hours, and afterwards, she was completely drained and had to take a nap. “It wasn’t worth it,” she told me. “But I thought it was.”
I listened to her story with horror and shared it with my husband, who grew even more worried. We both realized that I wouldn’t be able to do much in the coming months. Friends and family offered to help, and though we may have declined in the past, we now accepted their assistance gratefully.
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