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Illustration by Mary Kirkpatrick
“It’s cancer” she muttered.
I froze. Time felt as though it had slowed. Its once rapid, rhythmic pace was now disorderly and unperceptive.
My mother spoke to me in short, tear-filled breaths. I sat six feet away, still as a statue, absently listening. I memorized the details of her face, drowning out the reassuring tone she was trying to convey.
Last year, my mother was diagnosed with cancer, and not the “good” kind. You hear stories, see movies. But you never think this kind of situation will happen to you.
In my 16 years, I’ve been lucky enough to avoid the harsh realities of life, so this news came as a devastating and unexpected shock. Over the next few weeks, a looming feeling of change began to set in, so I did what any kid would do, I tried to ignore it. I spent my days ensuring I didn’t have a moment to sit down, and my nights drowning out the uncertainty with mindless television. But it didn’t work. No amount of distractions could prevent how I felt.
I spent every moment I could researching my mother’s condition. I sought guidance on the internet, hoping to find some answers or refuge amid my turmoil. But all I found was fear.
“Most patients don’t live for more than two years,” “This particular cancer is fast-spreading,” “A 93 per cent mortality rate.” I was knee-deep in an endless loop of hitting the search button. I realized that I needed to step back and reassess my approach. Taking a deep breath, I made a conscious effort to change. I decided to focus on finding comfort among my loved ones rather than bombarding myself with statistics and worst-case scenarios. It was this choice that finally gave me a sense of control in this situation.
As time passed, I discovered that I wasn’t alone; in fact, many of my friends had gone through similar experiences. We shared stories, they offered advice and I leaned on them for strength. This companionship offered me a crutch, something to help me get through the first stretch of this journey.
In April, things took a turn for the worse. I arrived home from school and immediately noticed a change in energy. My mother’s usual lively personality had shifted, almost as if it were a façade of its previous self. She took me for a drive – a long drive. It was then that she told me her condition had worsened. The cancer had spread throughout her body, metastasizing and festering anywhere it could. My world came crashing down around me. Nothing could have prepared me for that news. My mother’s battle with cancer was becoming increasingly desperate and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The drive home felt longer than ever before, filled with a silence that weighed heavily on my heart.
Any hope I had clung onto felt like it had just been swept right out from under my feet. The thought of losing her was unbearable, and I couldn’t shake a feeling of helplessness. I knew that the coming days would be some of the toughest of my life. I was right. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t drink – I could barely get out of bed in the morning. Grieving someone while they’re still alive is a unique kind of pain that I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. It felt like a constant battle between grasping at hope and preparing for the worst. It is a mockery of the natural order of things, a cruel limbo of emotions that left me feeling drained and lost. Weeks went by, and I began to get tired of the emotional rollercoaster I was on.
I started to focus on self-care and finding moments of joy among the pain. I prioritized spending time with my mother, getting out of the house and restoring a sense of normalcy in my life. Slowly, there was light at the end of the tunnel. I began to feel like myself again, stronger and more resilient than before.
I realized that the healing process isn’t linear, and I needed to be patient with myself as I worked toward finding my peace. Time heals all wounds and allowing myself to accept this fact proved it to be true.
It’s now been more than a year since my mother’s initial diagnosis, and it brings me great joy to say that she is doing incredibly well. After eight rounds of intensive chemotherapy, she is now almost cancer-free.
This experience has moulded me into the person I am today. It has taught me that things can change at any moment and to never take anything for granted. Above all, it has shown me just how precious life is. Now I wake up every day and appreciate the sunshine just a little more – now, when I say goodbye to my mom before school, I hug her for just a little longer. Though this experience has been one of the most challenging things I will ever have to go through, because of it, I now strive to live each day with purpose and gratitude, knowing that every moment is a gift.
William Wagner lives in St. Catharines, Ont.