Sixty-two. That’s how old my mom was when she died. Too young. She wasn’t ready—there was still so much life she wanted to live. Places she longed to see. Grandkids she hoped to watch grow up. But cancer wouldn’t let her stay. It was ugly. It was painful. She didn’t deserve to go through that. No one does.
Fifty-three. That’s how old I was when I was diagnosed with breast cancer four months ago. Over and over, I had to remind myself: My story is not my mother’s story. She was in denial, never going to the doctor even when she knew something was wrong. I’ve been vigilant—regular check-ups, mammograms, addressing every health concern. I’m not a hypochondriac. At least, I don’t think I am. I just want to live a long life—for my kids and for myself.
I repeated it like a mantra: Her story is not my story. I know I already said that, but it’s worth repeating. Your story is your story. End of story.
Looking back on the time when she was sick, so much of it is a blur. Could I have done more? Said more? Asked more questions? The answer is yes. And still, I did the best I could. I stayed strong. I told her we’d be okay after she was gone.
That was in 2013. She died on May Day—the day that takes me back to my childhood, picking bluebells and dandelions, wrapping them in construction paper baskets, and hanging them on the front door. I’d knock, then run and hide, peeking from behind a tree to watch her open the door and smile at the flowers waiting for her.
May Day, 2013. That year, her flowers hung on heaven’s door.
At 53, I faced cancer. The fear, the anxiety, the endless doctor appointments, the late-night Google searches, the surgery, the radiation, the meds… all of it. And I’m still here. I am so grateful. I miss mom every damn day.
For anyone who has walked this path—you know. Every single day is a blessing.
I see you. I feel you. I love you.
All warriors have scars.
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