A MOTHER'S LOVE

Hi there, my readers.

I'm four days post my first chemo dose, and to say things have been rough might be an understatement. However, I also recognize that it could be so much worse.

My greatest fear going into this battle was how I might react to the chemo. Why? Because I witnessed my mother endure it. It was heartbreaking. I saw the effects of what cancer did to her and how the treatment seemed to ravage her body even more. By the time she passed, she had become a fraction of her former self, appearing as though she had aged by 50 years.

I want to share a little about my mum's journey. Since she isn’t here to narrate it herself, or for me to ask for permission, I hope she'd be okay with this. It might give you a glimpse into what's occupying my thoughts so far.

In the past week, many have commented on my positive demeanor: "You have a great attitude," "You are so strong," "Being positive is the key, and you exemplify that." While I strive to maintain a positive and resilient front, I am acutely aware of my vulnerable moments: my fears, my moments of weakness, and those times when I've let my emotions get the better of me.

What am I getting at? My mum exuded positivity. She was a warrior. She had an indomitable spirit. But now, I recognize her hidden struggles. She was scared. She was in pain. She was frustrated. Yet, she always prioritized her family's well-being. This is a glimpse into my mum's journey, the true warrior, and the woman I wish was here to guide me through every step of mine.

Rosemary Robinson (Hutchins). Many say I AM MY MOTHER, so in some ways, facing this journey doesn't feel entirely unexpected.

She was the life of a party, an exceptional hostess who ensured everyone felt at home. She always put others' needs before her own. Whether accommodating impromptu plans or cancelling her own to support my endeavors, she was the epitome of selflessness. Even when she discovered a lump in her breast, she prioritized everyone else, delaying medical attention to avoid causing worry. This decision, one that haunts me and I'm trying to make peace with.

She was diagnosed with cancer around 2010, though I suspect she knew earlier. The initial treatment strategy—a mastectomy—didn't go as planned due to the tumor's size. With hormone therapy failing by January, chemo became the next recourse. Yet, displaying her characteristic strength and spirit, she postponed her chemo to attend her niece's wedding.

However, the toll of chemo became rapidly evident. Her strength waned, and the vibrant spark in her eyes dimmed. The physical agony was heartbreaking, leading to her prolonged stay at the hospital.

I can't help but highlight my dad's unwavering support during this time. After long workdays, he'd spend nights beside her, comforting and caring for her. Their bond was evident in every shared laugh, every whispered conversation, and every stolen moment.

They would escape every now and then to the chapel within the walls of the hospital, and she would always light up when they would sing this:

Because he lives, I can face tomorrow.

Because he lives, All fear is gone.

Because I know he holds the future,

And life is worth the living, just because He Lives.

The peace she must have felt singing that. She had absolute faith that, no matter what, she was going to be okay. She believed that her future was securely held in the hands of God.

After a few trips to the ICU and her persistence, we arranged for a home nurse and set up accommodations at our house for a while. She wanted to travel north, but fate had other plans. So much transpired in those weeks – an overwhelming amount, yet also seemingly not enough. She loved listening to my dad play the piano, me on the flute, and hearing my brother and sister play their instruments. She'd sit in her wheelchair, watching birds.

Hallucinations began, yet I never saw her cry. Fear gripped her; she was hesitant to leave her bed. My husband would carry her to the bathroom or help her into her chair. Eventually, this too had to stop, and she was confined to her bed.

April 13th was the day she left us. They were preparing for a trip north, arranging transport. My dad was outside on that beautiful day. She encouraged Justin and me to step out for a while, insisting that we enjoy the fresh air after being housebound for weeks. I remember giving her a quick kiss before leaving, but I'm tormented by the thought that I might not have told her "I love you."

We had been at the cherry blossoms in Burlington for a mere 10 minutes when my dad called. She had suffered a seizure and was being taken to the hospital. We rushed there. In a curtained-off area, they attempted a scan while she experienced more seizures. Clearly, she wasn't pleased to be there.

When dad arrived, the heartbreaking news was confirmed: the cancer had spread everywhere. The best they could do was make her comfortable. As family members gathered, planning to move her to a private room, a nurse approached. It was time. My mother had awakened briefly, expressing to the nurse, "I don’t want to do this anymore." She was given permission, she was allowed to rest, to stop fighting. We surrounded her, bearing witness to her final moments.

Something struck me today, prompting me to write this. After she had passed, I asked my Dad if he wanted a few minutes with her. He looked at me and said, "We already said our goodbyes." I don't know why I hadn't thought about it until today.

(While I have a brother and sister, I'm going to use the singular "me" for this account. This isn't to diminish their experiences but to express my own feelings more intimately.)

Mum knew. Dad knew. They were aware that the treatment wouldn't prolong her life. She knew she was enduring it all just for me. She exemplified bravery, strength, and positivity, all for my sake. She faced such hardships... for me. To Protect ME!

I relate this to my feelings when my daughter enters a room, finding me reeling from the side effects of chemotherapy. It's an indescribable urge to shield her from the unfolding reality. I yearn for her to always see me as her protector, helper, and biggest admirer – just as my mother wished for me.

I've now come to realize that despite their brave fronts, it wasn't always so. My mother had moments of vulnerability. She cried. She was fearful, angered, and in excruciating pain. Yet, through it all, she exemplified humility, kindness, bravery, resilience, grace, and grit.

So, why write all this? I can already hear some people saying, "This was years ago, and we need to move on." But let me explain. When an event enters your life that ultimately changes you, you begin to reflect on the past. I've never truly gotten over my mother's passing. It might sound odd, but since receiving a cancer diagnosis, I've felt her presence more than ever. The treatment I'm undergoing is for my recovery; it's not a last resort or because there's no hope. I will survive. But it brings things into perspective, making you comprehend aspects of life you never truly grasped before. And one of those things is a mother's love.