The First Night I Saw My Mother Cry
The story of how three women and their illnesses shaped me into the woman I am today.
You’re stronger than you ever realized, without a doubt.
That is a quote by Theresa Gougeon, a cancer patient at Rogel Cancer Center. There are exactly two reasons why I chose that quote to kick off this story:
- One of the women in this story goes by the same name.
- It’s one of the many clever things all the women I’m gonna talk about used to live by.
Here are their stories. And mine.
Five months left
My grandmother was diagnosed with brain cancer in 1983. Doctors told her she had five months left to live due to the type of cancer she had. My mom was eight years old back then, but when I was little, I remember her saying, “Jessica, your grandma was a force of nature. She’d get these super painful headaches, but I never, not once, heard her complain.”
Now, at 26, I can see why she never complained once, at least not in front of her own kid. Seeing one of your parents get sick and wither away is no fun.
My grandma survived those five months. She kept on smiling, she got her hair back after chemotherapy ended, and she got to live more than anyone had expected her to. On the day of her scheduled appointment, six months after the operation, she walked into the doctor’s studio, and I remember my mother telling me he had almost fainted. “How are you still alive?” that was the first question he asked my grandmother.
She walked this earth for ten more years.
Denial and depression
The first night I saw my mother cry, I think I was about five years old. I didn’t understand what was happening. Was momma okay? Did she hurt her knee like I usually did? Was her tummy aching? I clearly remember reaching for her hands and searching her face. Her eyes were as red as the Riyadh sand dunes, her expression a pool of pain.
My mom was suffering from severe depression. A year after my grandmother died, my grandpa also passed, and she never sought the help she so desperately needed. I hugged her and cried with her. What else was I expected to do? I was scared, and I felt her pain as if it were my own. That would just be the first of many nights in the years to come. I stopped crying at the age of eight and would usually lay beside her on the bed and be there for her. Handing her a glass of water, and massaging her scalp to calm her sobs.
When I turned 14, I finally walked up to her and told her she needed to get help. We searched online for a psychologist, and we went to her first session together. She still writes text messages to that woman, and she hardly ever cries now. When the subject comes up in conversation, she smiles, tells fun anecdotes, and relives those painful moments with the ease of someone who finally accepted their parents’ deaths and now cherishes the moments they had with them.
Nothing to worry about
I talked to my mom about the psychologist one whole year into another cancer diagnosis, my aunt’s: breast cancer. I was 13 when she got the news. It was just a little lump on the screen — nothing to be worried about — she was 74, and any type of cancer would move slowly. But as soon as they opened her up, doctors thought it wise to remove most of her left breast tissue and all surrounding lymph nodes. “It’s just a precaution.”
She underwent surgery. Chemo. Radiation therapy. We were in the thick of it when my mom went to her first session. She got better in time to help my aunt get back on her feet.
It was during that period of time that I started taking up photography. My own personal escape from having to think about death, or so I thought. I started taking pictures of everyday life as an excuse to capture as many lighthearted moments with my favorite women as possible. So that I could have as many memories as possible. I was preparing for death. I was making sure I would not forget the faces, voices, and accents of the people who surrounded me. It took me years to partially get over it, and maybe I’ll tell that story in due time.
My aunt passed away three years after her first diagnosis. Ironic and tragic, am I right? My grandma had five months left to live according to the doctors; my aunt had nothing to worry about on the other hand, and yet cancer spread everywhere in a matter of a few months in the last year of her life, leaving her a shell of what she used to be.
Our last call was about what to put on the Christmas menu. Her voice tried to imitate cheeriness, but I could feel it deep within that she was spacing out. Chicken. She wanted chicken. 2023 will be her tenth anniversary, and I still haven’t gotten the courage to eat chicken on Christmas Day.
Important lessons
My grandma’s life lesson was to smile at life no matter what it throws at you. Smiling makes you stronger, makes you bolder.
My mom taught me that it is important to get help because it can literally change your life for the better. My breaking and turning point was my phone dying on me. The only tool I used to feed my obsession.
My aunt tried to be as strong as she could until she couldn’t anymore. She kept on walking, kept on doing her chores, even at the end, when that devil was eating her up cell by cell. She kept showing us her toothy smile and making us laugh. My aunt left the biggest hole in my heart.
Who am I today? That’s the biggest question of all. How did these three women and their stories shape me?
The ghost of my grandma has always been with me: “You look so much like her”. I feel confident enough when I say that I got some of her positive attitudes towards bad times as well as her looks. My family history is hell health-wise, but I got through it all, and I’ve learned so much along the way: how to care for people’s bodies and minds, how to talk to them, how to ponder which words to use, how to console them, when to cry with them, and when to just be there, not even touching them. I’ve learned to face everything head held high because I know I am stronger than I’ve always thought. This is who I am.
