The Spring of 2003 hit me like a ton of bricks. It was my Junior year of high school, and I was visiting my father in Florida. On the last day of my vacation, he suffered a massive stroke and was in recovery for months to try and learn to walk, talk, and move again.
I spent those Spring months obsessing over his recovery, still reeling from the devastating event; I wondered, "how will our family recover? How will we manage as a family now that dad is partially paralyzed and can't work anymore? It can't get any worse than this." As the author, Joni Rodgers would say, "those glib little things we say. They have a way of coming back as gremlins to bite us in the backside, don't they?"
June is when I discovered it could get worse, a lot worse. My mom informed us that she needed a biopsy for a lump in her breast. I was 17 years old at the time, so I hardly understood what a biopsy was, and I didn't give it much thought because my mom reassured me there was no reason to be concerned and that "everything would be fine; it's nothing." But it did turn out to be something, the word you never want to hear from your loved ones, "It's cancer." That night, when I was alone, I cried and begged God to make it different; I screamed into my pillow, "Don't take her from me yet. I'm only 17." I felt so lost and hopeless; I wanted to protect her so badly, but I felt useless; how do you protect your mom from cancer? I remember telling a friend, "Is there anything sadder than losing your mom?" Many years later, when retelling the story to my mom, she replied, "Yes. Losing you would have been much sadder." At the time, I thought she was living her worst nightmare, but now I know her worst nightmare would have been seeing me go through it.
My mother's courage was inspirational, she vowed to conquer it and to see my sister and I grow up. She had every reason to be frightened, but if she was, she never let me know it. I've learned that mothers don't scare easily-they're tough, powerful, and made of titanium, I think. I saw that firsthand when she was in the throes of chemotherapy. Some days she was overcome with debilitating nausea and extreme fatigue. On other days she couldn't sleep from the pain, and sometimes she couldn't stay awake because of her exhaustion. Shivers, chills, and cold flashes racked her body, followed by bouts of hot flashes that kept her fanning herself all day, all the while getting me up for school, going to church, and attempting to work until she could not work anymore. She kept marching forward; nothing would stop her.
I expected tears or sorrow when she was forced to shave her head. The clumps of hair were falling out sporadically around the house. She decided that was too irritating and it'd be easier to "get it out of the way now." A few of us gathered there and watched her beautiful hair land softly on the porch, and I cried. There she stood with a bit of pokey stubble, smiling. She never let her illness take away her good spirit or her ability to make people laugh. It was so difficult to see her in that condition, but she stood there on our little porch on a rainy day with fierce determination in her eyes, and I never felt prouder of her. On that day, I kept thinking, "I hope she survives," and now I think, "I could only dream of being as courageous as she was that day."
My mom is quite the daredevil; she's never shied away from thrill-seeking and is a lover of roller coasters and ziplining; in fact, she once asked my aunt if it would be OK to jump off the second-story roof and into the pool. So, that's why I'm going over the edge with Gilda's Club to celebrate twenty years of her being cancer-free and honor her passion for life. My goal is to raise $1,500 to support their valuable programs for those impacted by cancer. I love you, mom. Let's do this! #TeamShelby