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

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.

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

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