I'll never forget the day my mom told me she had breast cancer.
It was a beautiful summer day, and since my mom is a teacher, we were both on vacation; life was fantastic. I was 15 at the time, and I remember sitting on the floor of my bedroom with the sun shining through my windows as I played Nintendo 64. She came in, sat down on my bed, and said, "Hey, Si-guy, I have something to tell you." I nodded, not giving her any of my attention. "I have cancer," she said. "Breast cancer, to be specific."
I am incapable of taking anything seriously. I always have a smile on my face, and I laugh so often that it gets annoying. The worst part is that I crack jokes when things get serious, even though I shouldn't be.
I didn't pause the game, and I didn't turn around. Instead, I chuckled, and said "So now you're only going to have one more boob than me, huh?"
She let out a tiny laugh and replied, "I guess so, huh."
We sat there in silence as I continued playing my game. I sat on the floor, and she sat on my bed, both of us remaining quiet. I didn't ask questions, I didn't show any amount of concern, and I absolutely didn't look at her.
What she didn't know at the time was that I couldn't look at her. My brain raced as I choked backed tears, and I knew that if I saw the concern on her face, I would crumble. My body-building mother couldn't be weak. She was the anchor that motivated me to roll with life's punches.
I wasn't kidding. She was a body builder.
Long story short, my joke-making defense mechanism prevented me from realizing how emotionally hurt I was by my mother's illness. Looking back, nothing in this world could have prepared me for the journey I was about to endure.
It started with the hair. One night, when my mom was washing the dishes, she noticed an increase of hair falling off her head. At this point, she had gone through roughly three chemo therapy treatments. She dried her hands after finishing the last plate and ran her hand through her head. A clump fell out. She held it in her hand and stared at it. She dropped it and ran her hand through her hair again. Another clump. Tears immediately ran down her face. I couldn't imagine how she must have felt: ugly, poisoned, bald. For once in my entire life, and probably the only time, I had to be stronger than my Mom. I looked at her and said, "We might as well buzz it all off, before you start shedding everywhere." It took a bunch of convincing, but she agreed.
My mom ever-so-proudly displaying her bald look.
Over the next several months, I watched her undergo chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation. I heard her wake up in the middle of the night screaming out in pain. I watched her vomit uncontrollably from the nausea. Her bones weakened and became only as strong as paper, forcing her to proceed everywhere with caution. The poison flowing through her body, the loss of her hair, and the scars made her feel like the ugliest woman on earth, and I witnessed it all.
Watching the strongest person I knew deteriorate before my eyes became too emotional and stressful for my jokes to push the pain away. It became too much for me to handle.
I started hiding in the basement so I could shed gallons of tears without anyone knowing how much my mom's breast cancer was actually affecting me.
Long story short, I got through it. We all do; and we're stronger because of it.
A photo of me and my mom, in her beautiful wig, on my 16th birthday.
A few days ago, a roommate of mine told me his mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. The only advice I could give him was that, although it's the hardest process he'll ever encounter, he will get through it.
My mom this past July on her 51st birthday. After we "got through it."
Whether I liked it or not, I was immediately surrounded by the publicity of breast cancer awareness. Pink bracelets, athletes, signs, bracelets, 5Ks, T-shirts and everything else you could imagine.
I loved everything that had to do with raising awareness for breast cancer, until I saw a shirt that read "save the boobies."
Are you fucking kidding me? I saw this shirt everywhere; it had become a trend among men and some women. I couldn't escape it.
I just want to state one thing: I am pro Breast Cancer Awareness, but I do not support the implication that "boobies" are a reason to support a cure. Considering it's Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I ask you all for one favor.
Acknowledge that breast cancer awareness is more than "saving the boobies." It's saving a daughter. It's saving a mother. It's saving a wife. It's saving a life.
To conclude, I want to share with you a poem my mom wrote during this terribly destructive journey.
The poem my mom wrote in light of this horrendously strengthening journey.
She is still that body builder in my eyes.
