Most readers of Get Up Swinging know that my number one priority to my breast cancer is more money for research for metastatic breast cancer. You know, I do it for my mom, who died at age of 40, only two months shy of her 41st birthday. I’ve also had breast cancer myself, and I live with the knowledge that my disease can have a metastatic recurrence any time for the rest of my life.
All of that’s true, but there’s more to why I do what I do.
For my friends who have metastatic breast cancer and young children, I know what it’s like to be that young child. I see the pictures they post, and when I see the early elementary school children, my heart breaks. I see myself in those faces. When you’re a kid, you know something sad and serious is happening but you can’t quite understand actually what is going on with the adults.
I read about my friends’ anguish about just wanting to see their children grow up. I think to myself, “These are the thoughts my mother had as she endured treatment after treatment with three children in elementary school.” I can understand their fear in a way because I am frightened of a recurrence and what is my greatest source of anxiety, is their day to day life.
I know what I’m about to write is going to scare the almighty shit out of my metser friends: I do not have any solid memories of her. I would describe them more like snippets of a dream I’m trying to remember but cannot with any certainty. Years ago, my dad played a recording of her and he had to tell me which voice was hers. I look like her and have the same disease, but I don’t remember her. She’s more a presence and not really a reality. I imagine this was something she feared and did not want to happen, but it did.
There’s a mom-sized hole in my heart that appeared when she died. It’ll never go away. I can fill it up with other sources of love and happiness but it’ll never quite fill the hole left behind by her death. It certainly shaped the person I am now, and I often find myself guided by the thought, “What would Mom would have done?” I also find asking myself when I’m blogging or sending out tweets advocating for change, “I wonder if she would be proud of me.”
When my friends pray for their current treatment to hold out for as long as possible, I think about my high school and college graduations, which she did not see. She did not even see me reach middle school. Those living with metastatic breast cancer want to see their milestones. Research into better treatments is the only way these moms and dads can see the milestones, big or small, happen. Metastatic cancer is smart and cunning, and it’s constantly thinking of ways to make it so the current line of treatment fails for the patient.
Holley Kitchen had a goal, which was to see her youngest son turn 5. She missed her goal by two days. Two young boys will be growing up without their mother, and that’s something I know all too well. Please read Susanne’s blog because her perspective drives home the frustration.
To my metser friends with children, please know that your children’s memories may fade to what mine are now, but know that they will never forget the love. I don’t remember my mom, but I know she loved me and my brothers more than anything. Your children will know that you did not go willingly and understand the ugly reality of cancer. Please please, do not avoid being in pictures with them if you can help it. You may think you look awful but your children will only see you. Trust me.
I know what it’s like to have cancer and live with the fear of recurrence. I also know what it’s like to grow up without your mother and have no solid memories of her. I would never wish either on my enemy.
That’s why we need to do better. Donate to Metavivor. Don’t buy pink ribbon products. Listen to those who have the most to lose because I promise you, they are the ones telling the truth, not the ones who want to sell tchotchkes.
7 thoughts on “We Need to do Better”
I was just having this conversation with my guy. I have a friend who has been struggling with stage 4 (TNBC) and she has two young children. Her fear is that her children will not remember her. I have been noticing that she is taking lots of pictures of them, but she is not in those pictures. She is not happy with the way she looks (with the steroids effects). I think she looks OK. I love her.
Thank you for writing this from a daughter’s perspective. And I am very sorry you and your family endured such pain and loss. Please stay well. xo
Beautiful blog entry. Sad, wonderful, happy and terrible all together.
Makes my heart ache, but it’s beautiful at the same time. xx
This brought tears. It made me thankful my children were grown before cancer struck, but I wonder will I be around long enough for my grandkids to remember me. They are one and almost three. It made me think of my dad who lost his mother at age four (no it was not cancer) and had just tiny snippets of memories of her. In his 87 years, nothing else really filled the mom-sized hole in his heart. When he died, he had his mom’s and my mom’s pictures next to his bed. You are right, children never forget the love, even when they are grown.