Losing my mom to cancer at just eight years old was no cinematic tale; it was a harsh reality filled with two long years of hospital visits, wheelchairs, and an oxygen tank that became a permanent fixture in our home. I remember those chemotherapy sessions, the barf bucket riding shotgun, and the endless family shuttling, all of which masked our true situation as “exciting adventures.”
In many ways, I’ve become a reflection of my mother—people often tell me I bear her likeness. My relationship with my dad has always been complicated. Friends of his would often say to me, “It’s because you remind him of her. He lost her once, and he’s terrified of losing you too.” Fantastic news for a girl trying to forge her own identity. My grandmother, in her later years, would call me Janeen, my mother’s name, instead of my own. At her funeral, people commented that my mannerisms were so similar to Janeen’s that they thought she had walked in.
Growing Up with Grief
Growing up was a unique experience. While divorce rates rose and many kids faced the fallout, I was the “only one” dealing with the grief of losing a parent. I was often told I should connect with a boy named Luke, who also lost his mother. We were the marked ones. Unfortunately, the adults couldn’t facilitate the conversation, and so no bond was formed. Ironically, we became friends later in high school, and in all those hours spent chatting, we never once discussed our shared loss.
Being my mother’s daughter has shaped the highs and lows of my existence, leaving me without a clear path. In a home with limited communication, focusing on my mom became my shield. While other kids played with imaginary friends, I found solace in my memories of her. Odd? Perhaps. I was that kid who drew intricate diagrams of the human anatomy in school while my peers fantasized about becoming firefighters. I even dreamed of being a microbiologist! (You wouldn’t want to trust me with anything science-related today, though.)
A Career in Philanthropy
As I entered the professional world, I found my calling in philanthropy, dedicating four years to the American Cancer Society and volunteering even more. I organized events that raised significant funds and united thousands in the fight against cancer. I connected with patients, families, and those left behind—people like me. While I thrived in this role, I eventually realized that my life was still anchored to my mother’s absence, making me feel like a ghost. Despite my passion for the job, I craved something different, something that didn’t constantly remind me of cancer.
I switched careers and, almost immediately, found myself pregnant. I stumbled upon the term “Motherless Mothers” and learned that I might block out my daughter’s eighth year—oh joy! Mark your calendars because I’m planning to check out for that entire year.
Embracing Motherhood
Fast forward 27 years, and here I am, a stay-at-home mom to two children under the age of two. My life eerily mirrors my mother’s. She never aspired to a career; she wanted to be a homemaker. I had always envisioned a professional life, but circumstances led me to embrace my role at home. Now, I find myself doing endless laundry, scrubbing off fingerprints from the fridge (oddly enough, they’re my husband’s, not the kids’), and desperately wanting to wear a sign that says, “I used to smell like freedom, not baby vomit and Cheerios.”
These days, I grapple with the absence of that phone call. I have fantastic friends and an incredible community of fellow moms, but at 35, I still experience those “I want my mommy” moments. I want to call her and ask if it’s okay to send the kids to the gypsies. I wish I could ask her why she chose to be a stay-at-home mom. How did she manage through the challenges of chemotherapy while caring for two little ones? I can barely put dinner on the table when I’m healthy! I long to hear her laughter, knowing she’d get a kick out of the payback I’m experiencing for being the stubborn toddler I must have been.
I want her advice on who will teach Abby to style her hair or apply makeup since I never learned those skills myself. I need to know what comes next.
Documenting Our Journey
In the meantime, with my own history feeling non-existent, I document every moment of my kids’ lives. I blog about it, I save everything. I strive to create adventures and cherish our time together while attempting to maintain my sanity. When someone tells me how much Abby resembles me, I reflect on how fine the line is between honoring our past and creating our own identities. My mom didn’t have nearly enough time to shape her canvas, and while I’m navigating through it, I hope to guide my daughter toward finding that balance.
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In summary, the journey of being my mother’s daughter continues to shape my life in profound ways, pushing me to find my identity while remembering her legacy.