I remember a recent fight I had with my mom. I got home from school, dropped my backpack by the front door and tossed my jacket on the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mom seated in her chair in the living room.
As I took off my shoes, she asked me to hang up my jacket and empty the dishwasher. It wasn’t an outrageous request, but I was feeling overwhelmed. It has been a stressful year already. Everything I was focusing on – classes, water polo, piano lessons and a host of other activities – was burying me.
After saying something angrily, I headed upstairs to my room. She called after me, but I kept walking and slammed my door.
Alone, my whirling thoughts calmed, and I mentally kicked myself. My mom wasn’t asking too much of me.
I know mother-daughter clashes are common. But I feel bad when my mom and I argue because our fights are about trivial things, and she has bigger things to worry about.
My mom has been through a lot in the past couple of years. Recently, she fought through her fifth round of cancer, and it forced me to rethink some things – especially our relationship and petty fights.
My mom is a cancer survivor, but more importantly, she is my role model. She is strong, caring and puts the needs of others before herself.
Her history with cancer started before I was born. At 26, she had skin cancer. A few years later, doctors diagnosed her with breast cancer. After treatment, she had a baby – my older sister. Then, the cancer came back.
She beat it, and then my twin brother and I were born.
Cancer can derail someone’s life, but my mom never gave up. She juggled two crying infants, an adventurous 3-year-old and the software development company she and my dad ran, all while recovering from radiation and surgery.
As cancer faded from our lives, she helped instill in me the importance of family. Our summers were filled with road trips to national parks. By night, we camped out under the stars, and by day, we sang along to U2 and Prince, car-karaoke style.
For my 11th birthday, my mom and I had a mother-daughter weekend away from my other siblings. It was special. We stayed at Timberline Lodge on Mount Hood and bonded over games of cribbage.
A few years later, I wound up in the hospital for 15 days. I felt isolated, but my mom slept many of those nights on the room’s pullout couch.
Part of my illness had to do with a thyroid imbalance.
My thyroid issue resolved itself, but my mom began to think she could feel a bump on her own thyroid. Later that year, doctors hit her with bad news: thyroid cancer. She needed surgery.
By this time, my brother and I were starting our freshman year at Grant High School. My sister was packing to leave for college. I remember my mom’s illness made the normal back-to-school turbulence seem like a landslide.
A few days after school started, she had surgery.
That day, everyone was worried. Walking to school, I was stopped by people I barely knew and bombarded with sympathy. My mom had already conquered cancer, so I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about.
But when I stepped into her hospital room after the surgery, I remember being scared. I saw her propped up by pillows with white bandages on her throat, and reality sunk in.
At home, she took radioactive iodine pills for treatment. To protect our family from radiation, my mom confined herself to the basement. No one was allowed within six feet of her. I couldn’t even give her a hug.
Instead of being sad, she turned her situation into a joke. To this day, it’s referred to as the time we “locked her in the basement.”
Jokes like that subtracted from the worry surrounding her cancer. And it was typical of my mom: despite what happens to her, she always makes everything better for the people around her.
Earlier this school year, my mom had another brush with cancer. Her oncologist found a stage zero melanoma on her arm. It wasn’t serious, but it still needed to be removed.
When I heard this news, images from her last hospital stay lingered in my mind.
On the day of the appointment, I drove her to the doctor’s office, skipping a hike with some friends. But it was worth it – I wanted to be there in her time of need. I waited in the lobby and supported her like she had supported me while I was in the hospital.
After a short time, she returned to the waiting room. I sat in a corner, trying to do the homework I had brought with me. But I was stuck on one thing – how completely lost my family would be without my mom. She’s the caregiver, the loudest laugher and the rock.
As she made her way across the lobby to me, she mustered a smile.
I know my mom is tired of dealing with cancer, but she’s not done fighting. Her story is not a cancer story – it’s one of dedication to others, of love for her family and overcoming obstacles.
I hope one day I can be as strong as her, but for now I’ll work on being more patient and stopping our petty fights. She deserves more. ◆
