The Mother of All Blessings
Reflecting on my experience as a cancer survivor on this Mother's Day
There’s nothing quite like having your daughter give you a shower when you can’t do it yourself.
After my mastectomy in March, I had to wait 48 hours before I could bathe. And even then, because of a surgical drain protruding from my body, it was difficult to navigate the bathroom on my own. Enter my 27-year-old daughter, who had flown in from New York City to take care of me during those first crucial weeks of recovery. Hanna had already devised a way to give me a shower while keeping me free from discomfort and infection.
Once I was undressed, she told me to kneel on the bottom of the porcelain tub. She cut a hole in a big black garbage bag and slipped it over my head. Draping it over my body, which was quivering a bit, she proceeded to give me a salon-style wash. After shampooing, conditioning, and rinsing my hair, she piled the wet locks up into a turban towel and then gently cut and removed the garbage bag. Using the handheld showerhead, she washed the rest of my body, being careful not to soak my incision or dislodge the drain.
And that’s just one example of the loving way Hanna cared for me, her mother, for almost two weeks. Shopping for groceries, washing the dishes, doing the laundry, cleaning the cat litter boxes—I was suddenly free from everyday tasks so that I could focus on rest and healing.
I was completely in someone else’s hands—my daughter’s—and startled by my own competing emotions. I felt exposed, humbled, self-conscious, helpless, grateful. And proud. Who is this amazing and strong young woman I used to call a child? I flashed back to December 1995 and those tender moments on the second floor of Sapporo Kohsei Hospital. Seated alongside the other nervous mothers and their newborns, my daughter and I learned how to breastfeed together. We caught on quickly and soon became the stars of the nursing room. I also recalled the first time Hanna’s dad and I gave her a bath at home. We used a big pale-green plastic tub, which we set up on the dining room table since our apartment bathroom was too cramped. Hanna’s tiny body seemed to dance in the water, her chubby arms and legs flapping with excitement as we lifted her up and gently scrubbed her clean. She had no inkling that her two young parents were secretly terrified we’d drop her, only to have her roll right off the table.
It's been a little over two months since my breast surgery. I’ve regained much of my physical strength and resumed regular gym workouts, though I still have to use caution when exercising my arms. I’m getting used to the occasional tightness and numbness in my chest. I’m a little less bothered each time I look into the mirror and gaze at my incision, which extends from the middle of my chest to just below my left armpit. I’m resoundingly grateful that I didn’t need chemo or radiation, and I have no regrets about my decision to forgo reconstruction. To reduce the chances of the cancer coming back, I’ll take an aromatase inhibitor for the next six years or longer. So far, so good. My hope is that the side effects will continue to be minimal.
So many survivors call cancer a journey. For me, it’s an unusual and intimate experience that I’m still processing. January and February required superhuman patience while I awaited my clinical diagnosis and a treatment plan. March and April nudged me to let go of control and put my trust in my surgeon and the healing process. As I write this—on Mother’s Day—I realize the month of May is guiding me in ways that I can’t yet articulate.
Meanwhile, indelible memories remain a collective blessing. I think of the meals lovingly prepared by neighbors and friends for my homecoming from Roswell. The colorful flowers and comforting cards. The walks and visits. The uplifting text messages that seemed to come at just the right moment. The phone conversations with female friends who understood my angst because they, too, have been touched by breast cancer. The rides to and from my medical appointments. My brother sitting next to me, listening intently and asking thoughtful questions, as we met with two different surgeons to discuss my treatment options.
And of course, being showered with love—literally—by a young woman I’m honored and grateful to call my daughter. Happy Mother’s Day, today and always.
October 1997, or just yesterday
I *did* drop my newborn. Well, I didn't actually DROP her drop her, but she came home jaundiced, and we dutifully placed her in the window, in her bouncer seat, on a long and what appeared to be a very wide coffee table. Her seat bounced her right off the edge. No harm done to more than my confidence, but oh, new parenting. Almost harder than watching them fly into adulthood. I'm glad I found you here, Gwen. :)