There are now towels on every single mirror back at my house in Ormond Beach.
Bathroom mirrors, closet mirrors, whatever reflects your image back at you, there’s now a towel blocking it, preventing you from seeing your own image. It’s a weird new addition to the house, one that wasn’t there when I came back to Tallahassee for the fall semester.
You see, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer in June. She started chemo in August and then shaved her head two weeks ago to beat the inevitable hair loss to the punch. Since then, she’s done her best to avoid looking at herself in the mirror to evade this brand-new image of herself.
It was a strange sight, I’ll admit, not seeing the long black hair that was my mom’s trademark for as long as I’ve been able to remember when I came home to visit last weekend. My first sight of her was with her new wig, which might have thrown me off more than when she actually removed it. Seeing her with this new hairstyle, this new hair color that I knew wasn’t hers, that’s when I knew things had changed, that’s when I knew things were absolutely different.
I’ve been planning on writing this story for awhile now; if we’re going to be honest, as soon as I learned of the cancer, I had a small thought in my head that knew that eventually, I would be writing about this. Not as a way to exploit it for reads or anything like that, but because the one way I know I can convey meaning is through words.
The relationship between mother and son is a weird, deep and complicated one. My dad was the one who taught me about sports, about being a man and working hard and all of those wonderful qualities. Without him, I doubt I would care about sports in the slightest, I doubt I would have kept playing football even though I was about three feet and 100 pounds less than I should have been and I doubt that I would be in the position to be writing these words right now.
My mom though? She taught me so much-things that I can barely put into words. My dad may have taught me to love sports, but when I walked off the field for the last time as a high school senior, overcome with emotion, it was my mom who walked over and put her arm around me and walked off the field with me, telling me everything was going to be okay.
National Breast Cancer Awareness Month never really meant that much to me. It was important, and I knew that. Of course I saw athletes wearing pink and doing their part to raise awareness. But it was such a distant thought, and, in a way, I felt detached from it.
It was just a special month, no different than Black History Month in terms of personal significance. People made boob puns, wore pink and donated money. I was happy attention was brought to it, but it didn’t hit me.
Now, I watch as Florida State teams don pink to raise tens of thousands of dollars for Tallahassee Memorial Healthcare and I feel pride. Now, I hear stories of survivors and I get chills. Now, I hear stories of those who lost their lives to this terrible disease, and I have to hold back tears.
It’s sometimes hard to realize what you have until it’s threatened. Throughout my high school years, there weren’t many days where I didn’t fight and argue with my mom, praying and wishing for the day I could finally leave the house. One day, it got particularly bad. Lots of yelling, lots of screaming and it culminated with me jumping in my car and leaving the house.
Hours later, I came back. My mom was sleeping on the couch, emotionally exausted from our fighting. I silently thanked God because I didn’t have to deal with her anymore, and went to my room. On my pillow sat a note, simply addressed “Perry.”
It said:
“I am sorry for yelling at you, and that you feel I take everything out on you.
I love you very much and only want the best for you. I know what you are capable of and only want you to succeed. You and I both need to understand and communicate with each other. We are both stubborn unfortunately, but, with a little patience from both of us, we can help each other out. I love you more than anything in this world.”
I walked out, gave her a kiss on the head and went back to my room, overcome with emotion but really, unable to fully comprehend what was in that note.
Now, two years later, I finally appreciate it. My mom is going through one of the hardest experiences of her life, and she’s doing it while still raising my little sister and volunteering at my old high school. She’s doing it while still worrying about me and my older sister away at school, while worrying about the rest of my family and really, everybody but herself.
She makes jokes about us scoring weed for her to help with the nausea, and that eventually she’s going to start cooking meth to provide for us. She embraces her comparisons to Amber Rose and a naked mole rat, and she’s beyond excited to, in her words, “get some cool new boobs.”
The hair that I used to chew on and play with as a kid is now gone. In its place is a clean head and occasionally a wig. It’s an image that my mom has avoided, one that may break the tough exterior that she’s put on and kept up. The first time she sees her new look will be when she reads this article, and looks at the pictures of myself and her.
But for me, nothing is different. If she looked in that mirror, she would see beyond the hair. She would see the same woman that’s stood strong through so much, that’s raised three alright kids, if I do say so myself.
My mom is the strongest person I know, or ever will.
I love her more than anything in the world.
Hey Mama, I wanna scream so loud for you, ‘cause I’m so proud of you
Let me tell you what I’m about to do, hey Mama
I know I act a fool but, I promise you I’m goin’ back to school
I appreciate what you allowed for me
I just want you to be proud of me, hey Mama
As we knelt on the kitchen floor
I said mommy I’mma love you till you don’t hurt no more
And when I’m older, you ain’t gotta work no more
And I’mma get you that mansion that we couldn’t afford
-Kanye West, “Hey Mama”
