Cancer first became a word when I was 6 years old... the same age as my oldest son is now. My mother was 36 years old when she had a mass removed from her breast. It was 1986 and breast imaging was definitely not what it is today. I didn't even know about the first cancer until I read old letters between my mom and her mom, long after she passed.
My mom was a single mom most of my childhood. She remarried when I was 13 years old, but my stepfather was active duty Marine Corps - a long, proud legacy in my family - however, it meant my stepfather was gone a lot, deploying all over the world.
When I was 19 years old (1999), cancer reared its ugly head again. My mom was 49 and it was back in her breasts. I had moved out by this time and I moved back home to be close to her. In November of 2002, I was 22 years old and my mom was 52 years old. She was diagnosed as terminal - the cancer had metastasized and was in her liver.
"Metastasized" ... there's a word I have learned a lot about recently. In short terms, those of us in the battle call it "mets" when cancer leaves its original location and goes elsewhere in the body.
When my mom was diagnosed as terminal, I moved back home with her. I became her primary caregiver, from the beginning of the diagnosis through the end of hospice care. I watched my mother die a slow, painful death from cancer. I took care of her, held her when her hair fell out, held her when she cried, fed her when she would eat (which was not often), and watched her slowly fade away from me. She was my best friend in the whole world, a single mom who raised me into the mom I am today.
My mom was a single mom most of my childhood. She remarried when I was 13 years old, but my stepfather was active duty Marine Corps - a long, proud legacy in my family - however, it meant my stepfather was gone a lot, deploying all over the world.
When I was 19 years old (1999), cancer reared its ugly head again. My mom was 49 and it was back in her breasts. I had moved out by this time and I moved back home to be close to her. In November of 2002, I was 22 years old and my mom was 52 years old. She was diagnosed as terminal - the cancer had metastasized and was in her liver.
"Metastasized" ... there's a word I have learned a lot about recently. In short terms, those of us in the battle call it "mets" when cancer leaves its original location and goes elsewhere in the body.
When my mom was diagnosed as terminal, I moved back home with her. I became her primary caregiver, from the beginning of the diagnosis through the end of hospice care. I watched my mother die a slow, painful death from cancer. I took care of her, held her when her hair fell out, held her when she cried, fed her when she would eat (which was not often), and watched her slowly fade away from me. She was my best friend in the whole world, a single mom who raised me into the mom I am today.
Those years are blurred together in my mind... the years between when I was 19 and 23 years old... after her death, I left my hometown of Beaufort, SC because it was not home without her. I felt homesick and alone, with no home to go to. I moved to Charleston, SC in hopes of a new life.
Life went on, even though my world was never the same. I got married, had children of my own, finished college, went through a divorce, and moved to Kentucky. I made plenty of mistakes along the way... we all do. I just hope I can teach my children from my mistakes.
Life went on, even though my world was never the same. I got married, had children of my own, finished college, went through a divorce, and moved to Kentucky. I made plenty of mistakes along the way... we all do. I just hope I can teach my children from my mistakes.