Debbie Legault is the mother of a young woman who was diagnosed with breast cancer at 27. Debbie chose to share the experience of being a full-time caregiver to her daughter during treatment in a blog called “Mom … It’s Cancer” and published the compilation of those thoughts in book format when active treatment was completed. Legault soon realized that the end of treatment was actually just another beginning and continues to write about the realities of survivorship both from her perspective as a caregiver and from her daughter’s point of view.

Debbie Legault

Debbie Legault is the mother of a young woman who was diagnosed with breast cancer at 27. Catch up on 

My daughter’s chemotherapy started at the end of Spring and went right through the Summer, informing every minute of our lives for those months. There was very little frolicking in the sun because of the increased photosensitivity and how she felt most of the time. As we went into Fall and counted the days down until that part of treatment was done, we knew that the punishing side effects were coming to an end, and the sense of anticipation was huge.

Fall is my favorite season, and I was looking forward to sitting outside with my girl enjoying the crisp air knowing that it wouldn’t end with me tucking her under a blanket on the couch for a rest. I couldn’t wait for us to go for walks in the crisp air without her feet hurting from neuropathy. I visualized us being able to go into a café for a pumpkin-spice something since her immune system would be back up and running and encountering people would no longer be a danger.

As the leaves fell from their branches and rakes came out to clear them away, I realized it was time to do some mental cleanup as well. I sorted my thoughts into piles of yellow, orange, brown, and red and slowly but surely stuffed them into bags and put them on my emotional curb for pickup.

Yellow was shifting my thoughts into things like Tuesdays being just another day of the week instead of chemo day. Orange was learning to breathe through things like seeing foods on the grocery shelves that we had purchased in the hope she could eat them and recognizing that they were just… food. Brown was sorting through all the crappy things that had happened to my girl during chemotherapy and accepting that just maybe the worst of them was over.

The red ones, however, were a lot more difficult and the bags kept falling over and dumping them back on my mental lawn.

Red was the helplessness, the fear, the anger. It was all the big emotions that I had been shoving down while I was in action mode, making sure things got done. I worked very hard to manage them, but just as I would think I had swept up the last red leaf, a trigger would appear, and my emotional landscape would be covered in them once again.

It took more than one fall for me to finally put that bag of red leaves onto the curb. The never-ending nature of cancer kept bringing one more scan, one more appointment, one more instance of playing the waiting game when results were pending, that whipped that pile into the air like a sudden gust of wind.

But as the years have passed, as seasons have rolled one into the other, I have been able to step back and not let the bad stuff in so easily. There are still times when I will look down, and there are a few yellow, orange, brown, or red leaves on the ground around me related to my girl’s cancer experience. But now, I close my eyes and breathe in the autumn air as I wrap my arms around my heart and feel my daughter still there. I feel the joy of her existence as we move into my favorite time of year, and I pick up the phone.

“Hey Adrienne… want to go for a pumpkin-spice something this afternoon?”

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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The narrative captures a parent's emotional journey through their child's chemotherapy, highlighting the transition from the challenges of treatment to the relief and freedom of recovery. The changing seasons metaphorically represent the emotional shifts experienced, with Fall symbolizing hope and renewal. The author reflects on the mental and emotional cleanup required to move past the trauma, acknowledging the persistent challenges of cancer. Over time, the parent learns to manage lingering emotions, finding joy in their daughter's presence and embracing the simple pleasures of life, like enjoying a pumpkin-spice treat together.

As we head into Fall, I’ve been thinking about how much this season represents my daughter’s cancer experience for me.

How Fall and My Daughter’s Cancer Go Together for Me

In a seminar I attended once, the facilitator gave us ten pieces of paper and asked us to write on each one the people we were: colleague, sister, wife, teacher, dancer, mother, etc. Once we had chosen the ten roles, we felt we played in life, we were asked to give one away every few minutes until only one was left. It wasn’t surprising to me that the one I held onto to the very end was mother.

When my daughter was diagnosed with cancer, I moved in with her to act as her primary caregiver. There was never any doubt in her or anyone else in my family’s minds that I would make that decision. What I hadn’t anticipated was how my daughter’s cancer diagnosis would create a shift in the one identity that I considered my prime directive. I had always given my children shelter and did all I could to protect them from harm, but there was nothing I could do to shield her from what was happening.

Anyone who has walked in my shoes knows the crippling helplessness that comes with watching your loved one suffer, and it's easy to get lost in the whirlwind that whips up when cancer arrives on the scene. I attended every appointment, every chemotherapy session, every radiation treatment, and everything else along the way, like her head being shaved and her wig fittings. And in each situation, the professionals we dealt with went out of their way to help me stay her mom.

When Adrienne introduced me, she would ask the team member to acknowledge me as her voice, that if I asked a question or expressed a concern, they would consider it as something she wanted to know. We would go over what we felt was important ahead of the appointments, so I was prepared to find out what she and I both needed answers to. There were times when I would not be satisfied with a response, and I needed to push back a little, and in every instance, I was treated with respect and care. When I accompanied her to the chemo ward, the staff called me “Mom” and gave me free rein to look for extra pillows, grab a warm blanket, or some ice chips. They never made me feel like a bother to them as they rushed around responding to beeps and alarms. Her surgeon took extra time to sit with me after her three operations to make sure I had all the information I needed to help her heal. When we went for the results of the post-lymph node dissection pathology report, instead of waiting for Adrienne to come into his office after she was dressed from his examination, he told me right away that there was no evidence of cancer and came over to hug me when I burst into tears of relief.

Adrienne is an adult woman, and I could easily have been sidelined by everyone involved, but that never happened. I needed a way to feel like I was the type of mother I had always been for her, to do something to combat the helplessness that was leading to despair, and throughout the year I spent supporting her, the medical team gave me as many chances as they could to get there.

The piece of paper with Mom on it may have been crumpled a little bit, but I am slowly but surely smoothing it out. It could have been ripped to pieces, but thanks to my daughter’s cancer team, I was able to hold onto it, and I will be forever grateful.

A mother recounts her experience as the primary caregiver for her daughter diagnosed with cancer, highlighting the emotional challenges and the support received from the medical team. Despite the helplessness and despair, the healthcare professionals respected her role, allowing her to remain an integral part of her daughter's care. This support helped her maintain her identity as a mother, even in the face of adversity. The narrative underscores the importance of compassionate care and communication in oncology, emphasizing the role of caregivers in the treatment journey.

I share how my daughter’s cancer team let me stay involved and supported, helping me remain present as her mom through every step of treatment.

How My Daughter’s Cancer Team Helped Me Stay Her Mom

I know I have always been the hub of this family, the person you relied upon when you needed advice or a safe place to land. Even when you all became adults, the default setting in your “I have a problem” app was “Call my Mom”. And while I might not always have helped you come to a solution, I knew that our conversations usually moved you forward on the path to making things work.

If trips needed to be planned, you knew I’d find the best deals. If a big dinner needed to be cooked for a get-together, I created the menu and shopped for the food. If you moved houses, you would look at me and say “Please, Mom, help me organize this nonsense” and I’d find miraculous storage options you hadn’t even thought of. It’s not that you’re incapable. On the contrary, your resourcefulness and ability to think outside the box is a source of amazement and pride to me. I just think we all knew that I loved being that version of Mom and we let that be okay.

Then your sister was diagnosed with breast cancer, and in a heartbeat, our entire world shifted.

It’s hard to explain how much my focus narrowed. You still existed. I could see you. But as the reality of what your sister’s cancer treatment would mean for her (and, as her intimate caregiver, for me) became clear, my capacity to play the role I had always played shrank in reflection.

I was prepared for resentment. I was ready for you to express a sense of abandonment. I was reconciled that balls would get dropped and family traditions would be left behind. What I wasn’t expecting - at all -was the depth of compassion, the understanding, and forgiveness for things left undone or forgotten you offered me when my world was a very dark place.

I don’t think it’s possible to define what a gift you were to me when I was at my lowest. You opened your home and changed plans at a moment’s notice, moving bedrooms and schedules around to accommodate our needs. You became your own sounding board or found others to help you make decisions because calling me became a non-option. You saw that I only had so much energy to give and were determined that you would not draw on any of it so it was all there for your sister. You planned the dinners, you put up the decorations, you sent funny memes to brighten my day. And when the despair of watching your sister suffer meant that putting one foot in front of the other was all I could manage, you invisibly put your hands on my shoulders and in doing so said “We’ve got you, Mom, so you can have her”.

Cancer changes people and it changes the people closest to them, too. I didn’t realize I could be broken until your sister was going through cancer treatment, I don’t think any of us did, and when it happened you had a choice to make. You could have altered your view of who I was when you saw the cracks to someone less than, but instead you chose to acknowledge that part of me with gentleness and support until I could put myself back together.

I’ve come to realize that you had all the tools and skills you needed to take the lead but never did because that was my role in our family play. When cancer took me out, the understudies took the stage and the show went on. Funnily enough, as we get further away from the dark times and I want to step back into my old shoes you’re all happy to let me and we all know you do it because you know it brings me joy, not because I’m better at it.

Cue the standing ovation from your biggest fan.

The narrative explores the profound impact of a family member's cancer diagnosis on familial roles and dynamics. The author, traditionally the family's central figure, finds her focus narrowed as she becomes the primary caregiver for her daughter with breast cancer. In response, her other children step up, demonstrating compassion and resilience, taking on responsibilities and supporting their mother. This experience reveals the strength and capability of the family, highlighting the adaptability and love that sustains them through challenging times, ultimately allowing the author to return to her cherished role.

When my daughter had cancer, my other children carried our family with grace, compassion and strength I didn’t know I’d one day need from them.

A Letter to My Children Who Loved Their Sister Through Cancer

When my daughter was diagnosed with breast cancer at 27, I moved across the country to support her through three surgeries, twenty weeks of chemotherapy, and six weeks of radiation. There was so much to manage both practically and emotionally, and while she never saw it… except maybe once… the helplessness and despair I felt was overwhelming most of the time. I had limited options to work through it all, and to my surprise, because I had never done anything like it before, being intimately involved in my daughter’s cancer experience triggered a passion and a need to write it all down.

When I went looking for information directed at people like me when my daughter was diagnosed, there was almost nothing out there. I found lots of blogs and support groups for spouses, and young children, and the parents of young children whose loved ones had been visited by cancer, but no one sharing what life was like as the mother of a twenty-something. The few things I did find really didn’t resonate with me. They didn’t reflect the reality we were living, and I couldn’t reconcile what I saw as the false positivity in the few things I was able to hunt down. In my world, there was nothing good about standing by my child’s side as she was poked and prodded, and drugs so toxic they can burn the skin were injected into her veins. Nothing warm and fuzzy about massaging her feet and hands to try to push back the numbness and pain of neuropathy. No epiphanies about life that couldn’t have been learned without her body being cut into multiple times.

I started to write about my truth, and my daughter’s truth, and I was amazed at the reaction. While I have had some mothers reach out to me to ask me questions or thank me for giving them something to find when they went looking when their twenty- or thirty-something children were diagnosed with cancer, my larger audience has turned out to not be the mothers of young women diagnosed with breast cancer at all. My biggest audience is the young women themselves.

When I write about how the diagnosis, treatment and living in the aftermath of cancer survivorship impacts my daughter’s life and mine, I do not pull any punches. Life for my child will never be “normal” again. The trust she had in her young body to carry her through was wiped out when she heard the words “It’s cancer.” We are six years out from when she sat in a doctor’s chair and found out the lump was definitely not nothing, and it still informs her life completely.

People look at her now and say, “You’re good… right?” She isn’t. She’s okay and has good days, but she will never be able to go back to who she was before because that person got left on the cutting room floor. She has long-term side effects from treatment that she has to manage every day. She takes medication that keeps her in chemically induced menopause to prevent recurrence, and more medication to help her deal with the impact of that, and yet more medication to help her deal with the impact of the second one. She still has appointments with oncologists, dermatologists, and cardiologists, all to do with her cancer treatment. She sees a counsellor regularly to help her deal with the emotional fallout that can drop her to her knees in a heartbeat. Because it still can, when she least expects it.

There is laughter, there is love, there is light. I am not saying that our lives are misery 24/7 because that would be a lie. But mixed in with the moments of joy is the grief of a young woman’s future interrupted and the understanding that she will be living a life adjusted until it (hopefully a long time from now) ends.

When I write about our story, other young women will tell me they feel seen for the first time in a long time. They will share what I write with their loved ones because the words they can’t seem to find to explain what’s going on for them are there on the screen. They will tell me they thought there was something wrong with them because they couldn’t meet expectations to be “all good now,” and having someone say that it’s the expectation that needs to change, not them, makes them weep.

I am eternally grateful to my child for giving me permission to share her story from her perspective and mine, and that Cure has given me a voice. It helps me manage my helplessness in the face of this dread disease to know that our experience speaks to others and eases some of their minds. It helps my girl to know that when others read about her, it gives them the space to normalize their own existence, even though there is nothing normal about it.

A mother's journey through her daughter's breast cancer diagnosis at 27 reveals the emotional and practical challenges faced by caregivers. Despite the lack of resources for parents of young adults with cancer, writing became a therapeutic outlet, resonating with young women experiencing similar struggles. The narrative highlights the lasting impact of cancer on survivors' lives, challenging societal expectations of recovery. The shared story provides validation and support for others, emphasizing the importance of acknowledging the ongoing challenges faced by cancer survivors and their families.

When my daughter was diagnosed with breast cancer, writing our truth helped me and others face the harsh realities and lasting impact of cancer survivorship.

Debbie Legault

How Fall and My Daughter’s Cancer Go Together for Me

How My Daughter’s Cancer Team Helped Me Stay Her Mom

A Letter to My Children Who Loved Their Sister Through Cancer

My Cancer Passion: Writing It Down

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