Mom, Daughter and Cancer

I showed up for my monthly maintenance treatment today and was greeted by a ubiquitous sight that still, six years later, cuts me to my core… 

Today, two young adult daughters sit with their mom as she awaits treatment. Minutes later, two more mother-daughter duos entered the waiting room. There’s an energy of solidarity they give off that warms my heart and, at the same time, reminds me that a big piece of that same heart is under construction forever. 

First, I’m reminded of when my mom went through all of her cancer scares. For the first one, when she was initially diagnosed with melanoma, I was in college, and she didn’t want to disrupt my senior year. I told my professor this, and he let me move things around so I could be with her whenever possible. At the time, I thought this was the worst thing anyone could experience. I didn’t know anything about cancer (especially compared to now), and the word terrified the shit out of me. It caused me to picture a life without my mom- my greatest champion and friend- which felt devastating. 

My mom’s second cancer scare is the one I get asked about the most because it’s theoretically the most relevant to my life. The following year, my first year out of college, when I moved to Austin, they found the earliest signs of breast cancer in a routine mammogram. Having just navigated a melanoma diagnosis, she opted to have a double mastectomy and move through it as quickly as possible. I remember how brutal the series of surgeries seemed and how traumatizing it was for her not to feel “normal” anymore. 

We fought off the cancer monster for almost nine years after that. My mom, having the same avoidant tendencies that I do, decided to stop going to her oncology appointments because of the stress and anxiety they caused her; all things I fully respect and understand. There was once a blood work mix-up that was too upsetting for her to keep putting herself in that position. 

I kept the drama fresh for everyone, though, don’t worry. During that window of time, I got married, bought a house, got divorced, and navigated a very different life than I expected, all with her right by my side. A therapist once asked me if I knew about codependency related to our mother-daughter relationship, but that is a story for another day. 

By the end of 2016, I was in a relationship with my husband, Nic, and had sold that first house I had intended for a family. It felt like the stars were starting to align. I had a job that was fun and had brought so many wonderful people into my life. Nic was everything I dreamed of in a partner and was working hard to build up his first restaurant. We were young, flexible, and figuring shit out. My mom and I even planned a girls’ trip to Maui to celebrate her 60th birthday and my upcoming 30th. Hawaii was her favorite place and the perfect time for a significant celebration. 

At the beginning of 2017, I was laid off from a job I had loved. At this point, it wasn’t the same as it was initially and was truthfully no longer the right fit, but it was still a blow to my ego and my sense of security. I ended up freelancing a bit, and my mom suggested that we postpone our trip until things were calmer in my life. I refused to do that for some reason and insisted we continue our plan for what I called #MomMauiMaitais. 

We left at the end of April 2017 and had a lovely week together. Of course, now I look back and see that things were not 100% normal. She was having trouble with her energy, acting a little out of character, and forgetting things she would never have. I chalked it up to jet lag and getting older and didn’t worry about it too much. 

During that trip, we were sitting on the beach, and she started crying about how grateful she was that I wanted to take that trip with her. The desire to travel is one of the things she and I shared, and my initial thought was, “Why the hell would I miss out on this?!” But now, that conversation plays back much differently. She also told me that when she died, she wanted to be cremated and have her ashes spread in Hanalei Bay, her favorite place in the world. I told her she was crazy and that we wouldn’t deal with that anytime soon, but I would note it for the future. 

One week to the day after we got home, while Nic and I were out day drinking during his one day off, I received a call from my dad. Something immediately felt wrong. The triangulation of our family relationship was that my mom was the communication hub for all of us, so my dad calling was not the norm. 

When I answered, he told me that my mom had a seizure while playing tennis that day. They had been out playing with a large group of friends, and her arm stopped working. Then, she fell unconscious and into convulsions. They weren’t sure what had happened, but an ambulance took her to the hospital for more tests. She mentioned that she had a similar experience with her arm on our flight back to the mainland but failed to tell me about it while I slept soundly beside her on the plane. 

At this point, my parents tried to keep the severity to themselves until they knew more. I understood this but had a feeling in my gut that something terrible was happening. She and I FaceTimed and texted. She was embarrassed by the drama she had caused and the black eye she had from the fall. As far as I knew, they were still waiting on tests to come back and told me to stay in Austin until they knew more. 

It turned out that the melanoma she encountered nine years earlier had returned and metastasized into her brain. She immediately started radiation to see if they could shrink the tumors and worked with an oncologist on a treatment plan. 

Unfortunately, between the radiation and the progression, her prognosis was not great. That week we spent in Hawaii was the last regular week we ever got to have together. That summer was filled with steroids, medicines, and trips to the emergency room for her and my dad. 

At first, I talked to her as many times a day as I could between meetings and on my walks to and from work. I was on the phone with her in the lobby of my office building when her hair started to fall out. I helped her develop a plan to navigate that as positively as possible, even though, looking back, losing her hair was the beginning of the end. I think it was the point where she was just over it. I did everything I could for her from Austin and abided by her request to stay put (because I “had work to do”)  when I wanted to go to Oklahoma as fast as possible and be with her. Now, I respect that she didn’t want me to see her as her health deteriorated, but I will always think about the time I missed by being far away. 

Nic and I got one last trip in to see her at the end of June before the steep decline in her health occurred. We watched Wonder Woman. Nic cooked her favorite meal and showed her the engagement ring we bought together. The mother I had known and loved for 30 years was not the same anymore, but I thought we would still have time together. 

Her health got progressively worse over the next month. This is no doubt the most only child thing possible- but when she didn’t remember my 30th birthday, I knew the end of our time was coming quickly. She always made my birthday feel like it was as big of a day to her as it was to me and that the day she met me was one of the best days of her life. 

I finally finagled a trip to Oklahoma, and it happened to coincide with when she entered hospice care. I was there to set up the house, help her get comfortable, and help my dad navigate the world’s worst experience. We organized medicines and visits. Together we decided the fridge was the best place to hang up the DNR we were required to showcase. We talked to chaplains and nurses about death and what hospice means. I ordered the dumbest shit for her from Amazon because I wanted this awful time to be as pleasant for her as possible. It’s unclear how she felt about this, but I stayed up watching Jane the Virgin with her for hours every night because I thought she would love it. 

My dad told the chaplain that the first time he had seen her smile in weeks was when I walked into the house. Nothing can prepare you to see the person you love the most in the world living out their final days as a shell of the person you deeply remember and love. But I slept on our couch next to her hospital bed every night. I told her how much I loved her and how thankful I was that she was my mom. 

Our cousin is a funeral director, so we began preparations for a memorial service. I will always be grateful that we had family support during that process and from someone who knew and loved my mom, too. My dad identified a friend to lead the service, and we checked many boxes that equated to a post-life plan. I decided on songs to play, including an inside joke of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and her favorite happy Jimmy Buffett song, “Wings.” We would be sad, but we would not lose our light because my mom hated nothing more than unnecessary attention or people feeling sorry for her.  

The last lucid conversation she and I had was when I asked if I could take her quartz crystal necklace home that we bought in Hana while on vacation. I wanted to wear it to stay connected to her as if that was the magical thing and not the culmination of the previous 30 years she spent loving and supporting me. Deep down, I also hoped that that crystal had magical powers to wake us up from the nightmare we were living. That if I wore it, suddenly, the universe would realize it had been wrong, and everything would go back to normal. She and I picked it together at such a happy time, and I longed to feel that happy again. I still wear it when I need a boost and to feel connected with her. 

When I returned to Austin, I busied myself to get more things in order. My best friend came over and helped me write an obituary. We planned a run of show for the day of the memorial. I continued making plans and communicating with friends and family. The doctors told us it could be days to weeks until we lost her, and the wait and uncertainty felt cruel. I wasn’t in a place to feel my grief yet, so keeping busy kept me from falling apart. 

That night, I slept with my phone on my chest, and the volume turned up in case my dad called with an update. When I finally went to sleep, I had a wild dream that I still vividly remember. I was in a car, windows down, driving on an island highway that felt more vibrant than real life and was the most beautiful place I had ever seen. Dolphins were jumping, turtles were wandering, bright tropical flowers were everywhere, and I was surrounded by clear, blue water. When I got to the end of the path, I saw my mom and gave her a huge hug.

When I woke up, I realized I had somehow slept through the call from my dad, letting me know that my mom had died. She snuck away in the early morning while we were all asleep, I’m sure as not to “bother” us. I will always believe that the incredible dream I had that night was her way of saying goodbye and establishing our current connection. 

I wish that I had been able to be there for my mom for every treatment, every appointment, every everything, the way the girls at the hospital were today. I will always hope that I was there in the way she needed me and that she knew just how much I loved her then and miss her now. 

She was my medical expert and my best friend. Going through this cancer journey without her, when she would have understood it the most, has been a significant factor in the anger I am constantly addressing and working through (thank you, therapy!). Once my disease was declared stable, I experienced horrific survivor’s guilt that my story had such a positive outcome at this point in my journey. 

On days like today, I find myself still talking to her through all of the steps. Things like, “My Uber ride to the hospital was $33.33! And he gave me a handful of random candy!!” Or I think about how she would have been the first person I called afterward to tell her that the nurse called me skinny and the immunotherapy shot barely hurt today. And finally, I try to tell her how much I miss her and will never stop wishing she was here to see the growth I have experienced and the magic I can finally see.