Parenting
My best friend is a true warrior. And when I say best friend, I’m not referring to my college roommate (who is fantastic, by the way) or my boyfriend (who is a close second). The friend I’m talking about is my mother—the incredible woman who not only brought me into this world but also helped me shape my own life. She has stood by my side through every challenge, always my personal cheerleader, my angel, my steadfast support, and sometimes, my savior.
However, on November 13th, everything changed. I will never forget that chilly day in the second-floor hospital waiting room, anxious energy surging through me as I struggled to focus during the two-hour surgery. The moment the surgeon emerged and led me into that small, stark room is forever etched in my memory. I stood there, much like everyone who had sat in those chairs before me, hearing the words that would haunt me: “Massive disease, cancer had spread. We needed to remove much more than we anticipated. Chemotherapy will be necessary.” His words swirled around me like a tempest, and the mere thought of losing my mother struck terror into my heart. The weight of the situation felt like a serpent coiling around my throat, each breath becoming more difficult than the last. I remember breaking down in the hospital restroom, crouching low as I wept and begged God to spare my mother.
The days and weeks that followed were the longest of my life. What was initially supposed to be a seven-day hospital stay stretched into weeks filled with complications, insurance battles, medication issues, and the chaos of ambulance rides through snowstorms to other hospitals. Every moment felt heavy with responsibility. Caring for a sick parent is an experience like no other; not college graduation, a first job, or even the birth of my child can compare to the sobering reality of facing a parent’s serious illness. I often collapsed in tears, praying fervently for her recovery.
Before my mom’s diagnosis, my boyfriend and I were excitedly planning to move in together, while my mother and I discussed decorating ideas, my son starting kindergarten, and his upcoming Superman-themed birthday party. Our conversations about life were abruptly silenced by cancer, a prolonged hospital stay, and the long road to recovery that lay ahead.
In those early weeks post-diagnosis, we stood by her side through every hurdle. I spoke with her doctors and nurses so frequently they even memorized my cell number. But I yearned deeply for the simplicity of our previous life—our chats, nightly calls, and daily check-ins. Each night in November, as I lay in bed, an overwhelming sense of loneliness washed over me like a tidal wave. It wasn’t just about missing our daily conversations; it was about longing for the days before November 13th, when life was still normal, before cancer turned everything upside down. I wished to return to November 12th, a day when everything was still okay, before everything shattered.
Even though my mother has displayed remarkable courage and is steadily improving, we know all too well the relentless grip of cancer. Each day is a battle, and I will always stand by her as her advocate and support, wherever this journey takes us. My mom has always embraced the strength of the human spirit, seeing beauty even in life’s toughest challenges. That’s a message I strive to carry with me every day.
At times, when the pain and worry become overwhelming, I close my eyes and envision the sunny days that will eventually return. Days filled with laughter, brunches at her favorite restaurant, and watching my son play in her backyard as we discuss future plans like weddings and expanding our family. I hold onto the hope that despite this painful chapter, we will one day marvel at the beautiful possibilities life still holds.
Until that cherished day arrives, I find myself missing November 12th.
This article was originally published on Oct. 25, 2005. For more insights on parenting and family life, check out this post.
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