Fourteen years ago the editor of my college newspaper handed me one of my first assignments. I remember being excited to cover a big story–Elizabeth Edwards had recently been diagnosed with aggressive breast cancer. This story could impact someone, I thought. This story matters.
She was the wife of the vice-presidential nominee and a household name at the time. In fact, she confirmed her diagnosis on the same day that John Kerry and her husband conceded the election. So I dug into my sources and spent my Sunday afternoon writing the article. At the end, I added a helpful graphic and blurb about breast cancer self-exams.
When the newspaper was published, I grabbed two copies: one for me and one for my parents. I cut out my article and mailed it home with a Post-It note. I think it said something like, “Here’s my article. I hope you like it.” I didn’t hear anything back.
My mom probably read my article a few days before all of Elizabeth’s health problems suddenly became her own scary situation. She was diagnosed in November 2004, too. At the time, she was only 45 years old. Her cancer was less severe, less dangerous, but so much more real to me.
The rest of the details are murky. I remember writing the story about a politician’s wife more clearly than I remember the months following my own mother’s diagnosis. She told me over Thanksgiving break in the living room–I sat on the floral couch, and she sat on the mauve armchair in the corner. I could tell she was getting ready to tell me something important and something terrible.
I blurted out that I thought she might be having a baby because that was the worst thing I could imagine. At twenty years old, the last thing I wanted was a newborn around the house. My mom laughed–like really laughed–and her face flushed. She became serious and said she had breast cancer. My stomach dropped and my eyes darted around the room looking for an escape. But there was nowhere to hide.
My mom told me that she found a lump. A small lump. And that she went to the doctor who did a biopsy. I’m sure there was more to her story, but I stopped listening. I couldn’t process it. Cancer was so far from my mind. So far removed from my life. Then, suddenly, it was a part of my life forever.
I didn’t come home much that winter. My mom was undergoing chemotherapy, and I couldn’t deal with it. I suppressed all of the feelings that come with facing your parents’ mortality. My subconscious was hard at work though. I would wake up sweaty and nauseous a few times per week. Sometimes, I vomited in a trash can in the middle of the night without any reason except my mom’s cancer. I honestly had no idea what was going on with my body. But years later, I realized that my anxiety was finding a way to be heard, even though I was doing my best to avoid it.
When my mom finished her treatment in summer 2005, she was declared cancer-free. We threw a little party with pink, plastic silverware to celebrate her victory. I was so proud of my mom for facing cancer with unwavering determination. And I was so ashamed that I couldn’t be there for her. I never made a meal or sent a care package. I wish my twenty year old self knew better.
But my mom knew that I needed to keep my distance. She knew that I needed space. She knew me best.
Last week I was at my annual gynecologist appointment, and I was reminded that I am not that twenty year old girl anymore. I am getting close to mammogram age, especially since it’s recommended that women who have breast cancer history in their families get the scan earlier. In my case, they want me to start going at 34 because my mom was 45 at diagnosis. That’s next year.
Early detection was key for my mom, and even though I wasn’t there very much during her treatment, I’m constantly there now–sending pictures of my own daughter, asking advice, and inviting her to this year’s Thanksgiving at my house. Fourteen years is a lot of memories and a lot of growing up.
My plea for you this October is to get checked. Your daughter will thank you.
