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When recounting a loved one’s fight against cancer, most people can recall their emotional and physical trauma as a family. At the very least, they can remember the treatment process, the seemingly endless vomiting, hair loss, fatigue, and pain. However, when I look back at my mom’s fight against breast cancer, I have no vivid recollection of these struggles. I don’t remember feeling any emotion. It was almost as if cancer were never a part of our lives.
My daily routine remained largely unchanged, even when my mom was going through surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation treatment. I remember coming back from school, and seeing my mom “resting” in the master bedroom. It didn't bother me that mom was going to the hospital—as long as there was someone around to drive me to my friends’ houses. I just continued with life as I used to. When I think of chemotherapy, the first things that come to my mind aren’t the side effects like hair loss or nausea, but the time I flipped through colorful magazines in bed with my mom to pick out the perfect wig.
As I grew older and viewed this experience in retrospect, I noticed how abnormal everything was. I felt that I should have been more aware of my mom’s suffering. I thought there was something wrong with me, that I should have felt her grief while she was in agony. This question dug at the back of my mind for eight years until I finally confronted my mom about her journey with cancer. And the answer finally hit me: There is no smooth sailing in the world. It is only that someone else faces the winds in place of you.
I didn’t feel grief or any negative emotions because that was exactly her intention. My mom didn’t want me to see the gruesome impact cancer had on her. She wanted a normal childhood for me and my brother. She didn’t want us to worry or have cancer to infect our lives too. Even facing a terminal illness, she still put me above her.
Once realizing this, I thought about many things. I thought about all the things I was embarrassed about my mom: The fact that she always complains about increased prices in front of the cashier, that she loves over-decorated, tacky mugs, and that she never understands that hot pink and aqua green don’t make for great winter attire.
I thought about our neighborhood walk one night. When passing by our house, she complained, “Aiyya, why does that family always park in front of our house; it’s like they’re watching us!” I scowled at her comment, muttering, “But you park in front of the house across from us.” I remember thinking to myself that a chance to bond with my mom was sometimes ruined by her comments, and how she was hypocritical. I remember thinking to myself, “I am not going to live like her.”
I used to think my mom was too unromantic and too mundane. I thought I was different; I was hungry for freedom and I had a dream to pursue. I treated her coldly and with harsh judgment up until eight years after I almost lost her. It took me sixteen years to finally learn how to say: You are my mother. What you love the most are hot pink puffer coats and tacky ceramic mugs. And that’s okay because I am your daughter and what I love the most is you.
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