Happy Mother's Day!
"You are as amazing as you let yourself be. Let me repeat that. You are as amazing as you let yourself be!" - Elizabeth Alraune
In January, I had a biopsy exam. I first spotted "it" in May, "it" spread by July, and by September, I had a surgeon in place. But out of misplaced fear of being told unsatisfactory news, I put off the visit. I used my courses as an excuse for why I could not schedule an appointment yet. But once the fall semester was over, I was out of excuses. It was silly of me to wait as long as I did. I was scared of what "it" could be. But not having a name for it only intensified my fear. I mentally chastised myself for allowing my fear to get the best of my reason; if it was something life-threatening, every day counts.
In January I met with the specialized doctor and two weeks later I was having a biopsy. As I was being put under sedation, I turned to Mom. Despite her attempt at a reassuring smile, the worry in her eyes screamed at me. Then I fell asleep.
In the moments I awoke, I thought of those immature tiffs every teen has with their parents. You never know what started it but you know it was something insignificant. Not washing the dishes, leaving my books lying about, etc. I didn't fight with Mom often at any age in my life. I was the valedictorian of my high school, never asked for an allowance or time to hang out with my friends, and always went straight from school to home. When my sister was born, and later my brother, I knew I had to be a pillar of support for Mom. I knew the struggles of her life and it wasn't my place to judge or ignore. In addition to my school load and extensive list of extracurricular, I did laundry, cleaned, babysat, and learned to cook. It was in those years of stretching myself thin that my mother and I grew closer. The rare times we disagreed it was usually about why I said what I said to my sister, or why I couldn't leave school early to help out at home. And the final time we fought was my senior year of high school about someone I considered to be a friend. Mom was right about her.
Since entering college, Mom became my pillar of support. Mom became my best friend, my mentor, and my role model. There are times she jokes around (at least I think it's a joke) and says I'm the parent in the household. In some ways she's right. But like a true parent, only she knows when I'm feeling worried even without my saying it. And despite my activism at home, she has never left me to shoulder the full weight of responsibilities. I made the choice to walk the tightrope; she didn't push me onto it. And she didn't leave me to walk alone; she was the safety net beneath me.
It meant so much to me to know that Mom's face was the first one I saw when the sedation wore off. She wasn't allowed inside the room while the surgeons were performing, but she made sure not to go too far away. And when we came back three weeks later, she was the one to squeeze my hand at the good news it's not cancer. I still have the patch and there's no treatment for it, but now it has a name -- unlike the bond I share with Mom.
To my mother, thank you for everything. Not only bringing me into this world but shaping me into who I am. Teaching me my ABCs, continuing to buy me books despite complaints about lack of shelf space, eating my initial burnt attempts at cooking, rushing to my side when I was sick at the cost of getting exposed to my germs, and so much more. You're not just a mom, you're a great one. And you're my best friend too (I'm not just saying that; I mean it). I love you lots, Mom!
In January, I had a biopsy exam. I first spotted "it" in May, "it" spread by July, and by September, I had a surgeon in place. But out of misplaced fear of being told unsatisfactory news, I put off the visit. I used my courses as an excuse for why I could not schedule an appointment yet. But once the fall semester was over, I was out of excuses. It was silly of me to wait as long as I did. I was scared of what "it" could be. But not having a name for it only intensified my fear. I mentally chastised myself for allowing my fear to get the best of my reason; if it was something life-threatening, every day counts.
In January I met with the specialized doctor and two weeks later I was having a biopsy. As I was being put under sedation, I turned to Mom. Despite her attempt at a reassuring smile, the worry in her eyes screamed at me. Then I fell asleep.
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| Mom and Me, Nov 2011 |
In the moments I awoke, I thought of those immature tiffs every teen has with their parents. You never know what started it but you know it was something insignificant. Not washing the dishes, leaving my books lying about, etc. I didn't fight with Mom often at any age in my life. I was the valedictorian of my high school, never asked for an allowance or time to hang out with my friends, and always went straight from school to home. When my sister was born, and later my brother, I knew I had to be a pillar of support for Mom. I knew the struggles of her life and it wasn't my place to judge or ignore. In addition to my school load and extensive list of extracurricular, I did laundry, cleaned, babysat, and learned to cook. It was in those years of stretching myself thin that my mother and I grew closer. The rare times we disagreed it was usually about why I said what I said to my sister, or why I couldn't leave school early to help out at home. And the final time we fought was my senior year of high school about someone I considered to be a friend. Mom was right about her.
Since entering college, Mom became my pillar of support. Mom became my best friend, my mentor, and my role model. There are times she jokes around (at least I think it's a joke) and says I'm the parent in the household. In some ways she's right. But like a true parent, only she knows when I'm feeling worried even without my saying it. And despite my activism at home, she has never left me to shoulder the full weight of responsibilities. I made the choice to walk the tightrope; she didn't push me onto it. And she didn't leave me to walk alone; she was the safety net beneath me.
It meant so much to me to know that Mom's face was the first one I saw when the sedation wore off. She wasn't allowed inside the room while the surgeons were performing, but she made sure not to go too far away. And when we came back three weeks later, she was the one to squeeze my hand at the good news it's not cancer. I still have the patch and there's no treatment for it, but now it has a name -- unlike the bond I share with Mom.
To my mother, thank you for everything. Not only bringing me into this world but shaping me into who I am. Teaching me my ABCs, continuing to buy me books despite complaints about lack of shelf space, eating my initial burnt attempts at cooking, rushing to my side when I was sick at the cost of getting exposed to my germs, and so much more. You're not just a mom, you're a great one. And you're my best friend too (I'm not just saying that; I mean it). I love you lots, Mom!
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