My sisters and I tenderly held our mother, and sang her gospel hymns to send her off to return to her heavenly home. She died in my home after an amazingly strong but silent battle against breast cancer. She wasn’t one of breast cancer’s survivors, but I consider myself to be a survivor. It’s true I didn’t experience the devastating physical aspects of living with cancer but I certainly experienced the emotional agony of being my mother’s caregiver. I observed a loved one lose her battle against breast cancer, and so I repeat, “I’m a survivor.”
My mother was a private person, didn’t have any desire to cause a stir or be a burden to anyone. She wanted to treat breast cancer as if it was a mere cold, something that was just a slight annoyance in her life. She never uttered a complaint, just accepted whatever treatments were offered to fight malignant cells multiplying, raging a fierce war in her body. With surprising expertise she managed to avoid reading news articles, watch television programs, or listen to conversations that dealt on the subject of breast cancer. She stoically attempted to live her life the best way she could until her body finally failed her. As she started to lose her battle, she still never said, “Why me?”
My mother may have raised me as her daughter but I had a somewhat different nature than she did. “Definitely not the shy type.” she’d groan, announcing it with a sense of amusement. I was the one who cried out, “Why me?” as I watched her passively fight breast cancer. I was the one who performed daily multiple self-breast exams, scoured through literature, viewed medical programs, and queried doctors with endless questions, educating myself on breast cancer and available treatment options.
Somehow I managed to bite my lip most of the time, allowing my mother to fight her own battle, but at times simmering rage overwhelmed me, and inadvertently I’d spill it out on her. My mother would listen to my rant, smile and go on as if she didn’t hear a word I said.
Since my mother’s demise I wear pink breast cancer awareness ribbons over my left breast, the breast she lost during a mastectomy. Anyone who queried about my reason for wearing the pink ribbon pin, I graciously offered my story, hoping it’ll assist other women in increasing awareness about breast cancer. If I picked up on a conversation revolving around breast cancer, I’d unabashedly join in and share my story.
My mother hid an immense breast tumor from everyone, including her daughters, for over a year. The incredible sad fact was that I was not only her daughter but a nurse, but she still didn’t speak about the horrible changes occurring in her breast. She was way too proud, too shy and too stubborn. Eventually these personality traits may have helped make her another breast cancer fatality statistic. If her breast tumor was detected earlier by a mammogram or even with a palpation exam by a doctor, she might be here today living as a survivor, but the idea of a doctor seeing her unclothed was too much for her. The last time I believed she underwent a full female exam was probably after my youngest sister was born. She cancelled every appointment that was made for her, that I coaxed her into.
I tell everyone I’m a breast cancer survivor, hoping my mother’s story and mine being her caregiver will touch just one woman, make them open up and not feel afraid to tell someone, seek help and increase their chances to be a survivor. My mother was quite aware I wasn’t shy, and because of my love for her, I share, “our family’s private business,” as she’d call it.
For reasons I don’t quite understand, the African-American community of women found breast cancer difficult to speak out against, even if there’s a higher incidence of death due to late treatment and less affordable treatment choices. There were numerous support groups, marches and fund raising activities, but many were predominately initiated by and attended by the majority of Caucasian women. I hold no grudges against this, and applaud their commentaries on this subject.
