The New Normal of Moving Forward

As I sat on my couch during a surprisingly warm April afternoon, I awaited the news my family had been dreading for weeks. I sat there watching YouTube videos on my phone while my thoughts wandered aimlessly. What if she did have it? Would she become very ill? Would she have to always have a nurse with her? What was my life going to be if it was true? I looked out the window and quietly listened for the rustling sound of her tires on our rocky driveway. A short while later, as I was in the bathroom washing my hands, I heard the sound of her car. I quickly hollered toward my brother and raced back to my couch. We sat there and we waited. Instantly, as I saw the dried tear marks on her face and her slouchy posture, I knew what was coming. I listened to her but remember my mind becoming blank after hearing, “I do have breast cancer.”

I think of this day often or try to remember as much as I can. As someone who has had several concussions, memories begin to fade but traumatic ones seem to always find their way through. But the one thing I do remember is thinking, “everything is going to change now.” I was recently reminded of this time as I sat in the hospital waiting to find out if my suspected symptoms of appendicitis were true. As I sat in the hallway alone, watching the IV fluids drip through the tube and flow into my arm, I was reminded of my mother. Reminded of the times when she would drive 40 minutes south from our middle-of-the-woods home and sit and watch the chemicals drip into her body.

My mother is someone I often look up to and someone I consider my best friend. She is a person who is the essence of what it looks like to be driven by one’s passions. As I grew up, I observed her sitting, absorbed in her computer, clicking the keyboard with determination to move forward. She was working toward her PhD while raising two rambunctious young children. She made time for her daily runs, as she does today. Ranging in miles each day. Even during the chemotherapy and illness of her diagnosis, she sat in her recliner, clicking each key on her keyboard with more determination to move forward than ever. Now she is a college professor with two pre-teens immersed in their technology. Even though the side table changed from textbooks to large, orange pill containers, she remained the same. My mother.

Our relationship only strengthened. Though our relationship was not one that was troubled, we drew closer to one another. Increasing our time together, day by day. We often found ourselves slouched on the couch, both staring at the blaring and bright screen of some stereotypical romantic comedy. Both shouting our thoughts at the TV about the movie we were watching. We continue this tradition now when I come to visit, as we do not live together anymore. Now we are only a brisk 10-minute drive apart. We spoke each day, as we do now, conversing about countless topics regarding our surrounding lives.

During one spring day, I chose to skip school and attend chemotherapy with her. I had prepared my backpack with various activities to do while I was there. I overfilled my bag with papers and books for school, ensuring that I had all my writing utensils, while sneakily including some stickers. When we arrived, the nurses greeted my mother with cheerful smiles and helped her get situated. I stood there and watched in awe as the nurses would reach in drawers and closets to grab necessary supplies. “How did they know where everything was and know what my mom needs?” I thought to myself. My mother motioned me to a chair, and I immediately pulled out my supplies and began doing schoolwork.

As I sat there, I found myself locked in eye contact with the chemical filled bag. I watched the perfectly formed bubbles gently pop one by one. I slowly came to and glanced over at my mother. She sat there with her bronzed skin glowing in the sunlight as I noticed her hair falling out one by one, trickling down to the floor when she removed her hat. Though I could tell the cancer was slowly eliminating the cells in her body, she held a smile. She softly spoke, “What else do you have in there?” I quickly reached into my bag and pulled out the packet of stickers that I had packed. We both exchanged a smile at one another and began placing the stickers on the chemical filled bag.

Her rigged scars grew in number and size, some longer than others. She transitioned from not being able to move from our recliner chair to now, running 40+ miles a week like it is nothing. I’m reminded that she kept moving forward. Even during this time, she would sit in the bleachers with her hat and large blanket, engulfed in them as I played my hockey games. Driving me, sometimes, two hours away for these games and having a contagious smile the entire time as she blared her music and sang to me.

Though I feel I have grown as a person from this experience, I feel that my choices as a 12-year-old feeling their world is shattering would still be choices I make today. The biggest choice being, to keep going. Between the nine-year period that has passed since she was diagnosed, my life has fallen apart and come back together several times. I experienced moving several times, parents getting divorced, loved ones passing away, mental illness battles, and so much more. Yet throughout it all, my mother moved forward. As did I. I’ve learned that things are going to be chaotic and there are times when you will have no control. When I heard those heavy and crushing words of my mother’s diagnosis, I felt absolutely no control over my life anymore because of the overwhelming fear of not knowing what was going to happen next. I felt this feeling several times throughout my life since then, but I kept moving forward. Doing anything I could to do what was best for me.

Every couple of weeks, my mother and I discuss recent updates from her repercussions of having cancer, as this reminds me of my own “new normal.” Each experience I have endured in my life has created a “new normal” for me. Because each experience is a lesson and a new way of thinking. Creating new and alternative ways to navigate an unsteady and winding road. But most importantly, even though the cancer is no longer actively attacking various parts of her body, it is still a part of her and a part of us all—and will forever have changed me for the better.

This article was featured in the December 2023 Rediscovering Yourself After Cancer issue of Elephants and Tea Magazine! Click here to read our magazine issues.