4 april 2026
The 'C' Word
I'm not certain I even know how blogs work but I want to start making either a daily or weekly blog outlining my own personal journey through helping my mother through Chemo.
My mother is officially on her second dose of Chemotherapy. Writing that down feels... heavier than I expected. It's sadly not the first time I've experienced those words. Someone else's mom, someone else's life; it hits closer to home when it's right in front of you. Those words cut so much deeper than what I was anticipating. I have to constantly pause and remind myself that talking about this, and explaining my thoughts and emotions are more than just a performative act of "woe is me", but a way for me to be able to process things and have everything laid bare.
I can't imagine what my mother is going through, if I am broken up this much about something that isn't even affecting me, I can't begin to wonder the kind of horrors that fill her head. Sadly enough this is not the first tragedy to have hit her.
About two years ago my mother had a severe stroke. I can't remember the exact name of it, but I remember it was a blood clot that formed right behind her eye in her brain. The first sign I saw was that she was blind in one eye, but not lucid enough to understand the implications. I wouldn't stop nagging her about how she needed to get to the hospital immediately, but she insisted that she needed to take a shower and get dressed first before we go.
The next year was a blur. The only things I could remember from that situation was that my mother was dying, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was an emotional wreck, I'd barely go outside, I'd picked up some pretty bad drinking habits, and I lost all emotional availability with my boyfriend. My mother completely forgot my name or who I was. At that point I felt something snap — the foundation that made the very essence of me was broken, like a turtle being dropped from a thousand feet in the air onto the rocky shores below.
After the removal of the clot, she recovered a lot. I say that she made a full recovery, but that snap was slow to heal, and I can't help but to still see the things that are different; the things that are "not my mom".
The next event was not as severe, but that's when I first noticed how numb I've become to seeing my mother in a state of distress. Earlier this year my mother was again in the hospital, this time for an ovarian cyst. The cyst after surgery weighed about 30lb (that's 13.6kg for everyone not from the US) and it was after it was taken out that we got the news that the cyst was cancerous. In response she is starting chemo, and I feel equal parts horror and hollow — horror at the idea of cancer, and hollow because my brain keeps going back to "she's been through so much, what's one more thing".
People keep calling her brave. I don't mean to be rude but I don't think she's being brave. Someone who's brave does so because they have the choice to be. She is fighting because the alternative is death. She's fighting because she's medically backed into a corner. I truly do love her, and I know that she is strong, I just don't know what word to use to describe how she is. I just know brave is not it, and even she told me that.
I feel very numb to it all at this point. I know that she needs support, and so I will continue to be someone who she can lean on. It's hard to feel anything about the situation at this point. I am just looking forward to a day where my mother is not dealing with a crisis. Besides that, I don't feel much.