I was curled up in the fetal position on my kitchen floor in March 2005 when my mom arrived to take me to a genetic counseling appointment to find out whether my breast cancer was caused by a mutation somewhere in my body. I had just completed my fourth dose of chemotherapy, and the cumulative effect of 2 months worth of toxic drugs was wiping out my 34-year-old immune system. I could barely walk or talk, and I am not really sure how my mom shuffled me that day into the car, into the oncology clinic for a blood draw, and into the office of my genetic counselor, who tried to interview me about family history while I struggled to not pass out and while the lab folks examined my blood counts.
My white blood cell count was low. It should have fallen somewhere between 4,000 and 10,000, but it was 700, and that earned me a mask and a swift trip to the hospital, where I was admitted and treated for 5 days. My mom sat with me during the mornings and afternoons, then she relieved my husband from kid care so he could hang with me at night. She did the whole rotation again a few weeks later, when my system crashed for a second and final time.
My mom did a whole lot more than hospital duty during my battle with cancer. She raced to my house the day my doctor called me at home to say, “Unfortunately, cancer cells were found.” She held my hand before a surgeon removed the lump I had found while washing in the shower, was by my side the moment I opened my eyes post-surgery, and nursed me back from a violent skin reaction to the tape that bandaged my parts. My mom joined me for every chemotherapy infusion, watched my little boys for 35 days so I could report for radiation treatments, told me I was beautiful when I hated my bald head and bloated body, and while I know she must have quietly cried about my predicament, she was nothing but a positive force during my journey with a deadly disease I have now survived for 8 years.
My mom, whose house is just a few miles away from mine (lucky me!), is a survivor herself. As a young, divorced, working woman, she raised two daughters on a shoestring budget and without child support. Times were tough, but my sister and I have nothing but cheerful childhood memories, and I am pretty sure our mom’s grit is what has helped us conquer challenging life circumstances. The girl has crushed a major liver disease (she had 95% of her liver removed 12 years ago), she has overcome nasty sports-related injuries, and she has rebounded from two hospitalizations for serious medical scares. Still, my 65-year-old mom is as strong as ever. She is yoga rock star, she walks miles and miles every day, and she can crank out push-ups like a pro. My mom is also a superstar grandmother to her four grandkids, and 2 years ago, my then-fourth-grader wrote an essay titled, “My Nana Rocks.”
She is “strong like a lion,” Joey wrote. “Once, I jogged down to her house, and she was relaxing outside in her favorite Gator chair. When I stepped onto her driveway, I challenged her to do 20 push-ups. She said, ‘Bring it on!’ She got down in her push-up position, and I said, ‘Ready, Set, Go!’ She smiled at me and did 10 push-ups in 5 seconds. I was astonished. Then, before I knew it, she was done. She did 20 push-ups in 10 seconds. I gave her a high-five, and I saw her biceps pumping, so that told me she was really fit and strong.”
See, she is good at push-ups!
And so much more.
