Parenting
I lost my mother to cancer when I was just eight years old. Unlike the swift and poignant portrayals often seen in films, my experience was marked by two arduous years of hospital visits, wheelchairs, hospital beds, and oxygen tanks invading our home. I remember accompanying her to chemotherapy sessions, holding a barf bucket in the front seat, and being shuttled between relatives’ homes while everyone tried to spin these transitions as exciting adventures.
In many ways, I have always felt like a specter of my mother – I bear a striking resemblance to her. My father and I have often struggled with our relationship, and those close to him frequently remarked, “It’s because you look like her. He lost her once, and he’s terrified of losing you too.” That’s some comforting news for a daughter. My grandmother, in her later years, indulged herself by calling me by my mother’s name instead of my own. At her funeral, numerous attendees approached me, believing Jane had returned because I had her mannerisms and even her distinctive walk.
Growing up was peculiar. During a time when divorce rates were escalating, my classmates were uncertain about how to approach me. I was often advised to connect with Jacob, who had also lost his mother. We were the “Only Ones.” However, the adults couldn’t facilitate meaningful discussions, so no bond ever formed. Ironically, we became friends years later in high school, yet we never once mentioned that shared experience during our countless conversations on the couch.
Being my mother’s daughter has both shaped my identity and left me without a clear path. Communication in my home was scarce, and focusing on my mother was, at times, my shield against the world. While other children played with imaginary friends, I had my mom. Admittedly, I was an unusual child; I created detailed drawings of the lower intestine for school projects, aspiring to be a microbiologist when others dreamt of becoming firefighters. (These days, I steer clear of anything remotely scientific.)
In adulthood, I found solace in philanthropy, dedicating four years to the American Cancer Society and volunteering extensively. I organized events that raised significant funds and united thousands in the battle against cancer. I connected with patients, their families, and those left behind, like myself. While I loved the work, it eventually consumed me. I realized my life revolved around someone who was no longer here, essentially keeping me a ghost. Despite my passion for the cause, I sought a different focus, one that didn’t constantly remind me of cancer.
I changed careers and soon became pregnant. I read about “Motherless Mothers” and realized I might block out my daughter’s eighth year, just as I had lived through. So, mark your calendars – I may just check out at that milestone. Fast forward 27 years, and I’m now the mother of two young children and a stay-at-home mom. My life now mirrors my mother’s in many ways; she had no career ambitions and desired to be a homemaker, while I had always planned to work. Circumstances, however, made it more feasible for me to stay home. My daily life consists of countless loads of laundry and cleaning fingerprints off the fridge (curiously, my husband is the one to blame, not the kids), and I often wish I could post a sign on my back: “I used to not smell like baby vomit and Cheerios.”
These days, I grapple with the absence of that phone call. I’m blessed with fantastic friends and a supportive network of mothers, but at 35, years after this loss, I still endure “I want my Mommy” days. I long to ask her if it’s acceptable to give the kids to the gypsies. I want to understand her decision to stay at home. I wish to know how she managed to endure chemotherapy while caring for young children when I struggle to prepare dinner while healthy. I want to hear her laughter, recognizing the poetic justice I’m receiving for being a difficult toddler.
I yearn for her guidance on styling Abby’s hair or teaching her makeup application, as I never learned those skills. Most importantly, I want to know what lies ahead.
In the meantime, feeling as though there’s a void in my history, I document every moment of my children’s lives. I blog about it, create photo books, and seek adventures to cherish our time together. I strive to maintain my sanity. Whenever someone remarks how much Abby resembles her mother, I reflect on the delicate balance between our past and our individual identities. My mother didn’t have the chance to shape that canvas for nearly as long as she intended, and while I may be improvising, I hope to guide my daughter in finding her own equilibrium.
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Summary
This reflective piece explores the author’s journey of losing her mother to cancer at a young age and the impact it has had on her life and parenting. It delves into the complex emotions of longing for maternal guidance while navigating motherhood herself, documenting her children’s lives, and striving to create a balance between her past and present.