Mommy's Dying

Someone asked me to share more about my experience of being a mom with advanced stage breast cancer, and for me, it's weird because the two are not mutually exclusive. In my situation, I haven't fully gotten to experience being a mother without also being a cancer patient. My son was born in September and I got my official diagnosis in December of the same year. However, I had found the lump back during pregnancy and at that time… I just knew. My dad's mother had died of breast cancer when he was only three years old. So I thought, and at times still worry, that history is repeating itself.

When your child comes, you have this natural instinct to put them first. Your life changes completely, and suddenly they are the center of your world. But when you're diagnosed with cancer, your life also changes completely and you're told that you have to put yourself first. You're told that it's not selfish, in fact, that it is necessary in order to survive.

I grapple with this every day. How can I put myself before a helpless baby? I've had to ask for a lot of help and accept that in my world, it indeed takes a village. But as a society we've lost that communal spirit. I've called on family and friends, but they are scattered across towns and states, and also have lives of their own to attend to. I wasn't about to spring for a live-in nanny, and with my husband working, I often find myself alone; I have no tribe. 

It often surprises people when they learn that despite the fact that I am on medical leave from work, I continue to drop my son off at daycare. "Oh you're not working? Well at least you get to spend all your time with your son," they say. Part of putting myself first though, means being able to lay down when I get extremely fatigued; which comes on unexpectedly and inevitably when the little one is raging on. It means being able to feed myself... not shoveling in whatever I can while also feeding him, but actually nourishing my body so that I can continue to have energy. It means not being there for him 100% of the time, but giving him 100% of my attention when we are together.

I have come to rationalize that this is in his best interest too though. By continuing to go to daycare, he continues to have his routine, which is important. I am not throwing off his schedule by my endless doctors appointments, scans, bloodwork, treatment. He is also getting a lot of social interaction with other children his age, something I probably would not have been able to arrange in my present state. As a result, he is a very easy-going, out-going little man. 

Still, it breaks my heart every time I drop him off. I feel ashamed and burdened by guilt, feeling like I am letting someone else raise my son. Even worse, given my prognosis, it forces me to think into the future when it is likely that I will be out of the picture completely.

I try to fill our time together like any other mother does… we go to the zoo, to museums, we play in the backyard or at the community pool, we read books and watch cartoons... I try to stay active, to make memories. But the reality is, he's not even a year old so I know he won't have any of these memories. I love my son and am so thankful for him every day. But there's always a dark shadow cast over us. Will he remember me? Will it be better for him to lose me and to have never truly known me; Will that somehow be easier?

So far in my cancer experience, I've met several other mothers. They've shared how difficult it is to explain to their children what's going on. I think about what I will say to my son when he is old enough, given the chance. For now, I wonder whether I should write a letter or fill a journal with advice and my hopes/dreams for him. Every time I try to put pen to paper I come up short...what kind of legacy do I really even have to leave behind? It's a lot of pressure staring at that blank page thinking of the person my son will become, and whether he'd be receptive to whatever it is I leave behind. And then I feel immense sadness, not for myself, but for him and what he will have to endure. 

In between the moments of sadness, I hold fast to feelings of overwhelming, tremendous joy. Yes, I have cancer, but I also have this beautiful gift. My son is healthy and he is happy, and for now, all he knows is love. His love and light bring me so much peace. It's crazy, but this baby has brought so much calm into my life. Having a child, and having cancer, is supposed to be utter chaos. You're constantly searching for your "new normal." But with my little one, we threw normal out the window and have just been free to simply be. It's working for us, taking one day at a time. Selfishly though, I don't want days... I want years. I want a lifetime together.

In my heart of hearts, I know that's what all parents want, so in writing this, I don't have any grand revelations about "what it's like." I go about parenting as best I can, with good days and bad, but am constantly looking over my shoulder. I hold myself in a sort of limbo, not sure whether I am dying or truly living, all the while vacillating between anxiety and excitement for what the future holds for my son. 

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