- I found out about the severity of my mom's cancer days before she died.
- I wish she hadn't kept her diagnosis a secret, because it would've helped me prepare.
"Life isn't about waiting for the storms to pass, it's about learning how to dance in the rain."
These words were scribbled on a yellow Post-it inside my mom's pocket-sized daily planner — I found it shortly after her death 12 years ago.
What she thought while writing it, quietly facing her mortality, I will never know. I do know that whatever it was, she certainly didn't share it with me.
I didn't learn about the severity of her diagnosis, metastatic cancer, until just before she died — and not even from her but from the doctor at the emergency room where she was admitted on a Friday afternoon.
She died shortly after that
I remember the sympathetic look on his face as he watched my confused expression turn to shock and realized this was the first time I was getting this information.
Three days later, she was gone, and I was left to solve a puzzle that would perpetually be missing some of its most important pieces.
Her tragic death left a long-standing trauma within me, but it was problematic in practical ways too.
For one, she never signed my name on the lease on our place before she died. That left me with no rights in a covetable New York City rent-stabilized two-bedroom apartment, which I was essentially kicked out of later. I wound up moving to another spot in the same complex, where I still live with my husband and my 5-year-old goldendoodle.
That part worked out OK, but the repercussions of her secret ran deep and manifested in other, quiet ways. For example, when during a standard genetics consultation before pursuing IVF, I was left frustrated and unable to answer basic questions about my family history; even worse, I had no one to ask.
I'm mad she didn't tell me about her diagnosis
Parts of me can understand why my mother did what she did: She was trying to shield me from a painful time. I know — or at least assume — it was an act of love. But that doesn't mean I'm not a little mad.
I can never get back the time I missed with her before her death. Her decision not to tell me had a lasting impact beyond missing paperwork, left-behind debt, or unanswered questions. It still haunts me that I wasn't able to be there to comfort her until just before that final weekend.
My mom told me in February 2010 that her cancer — which had been in remission for four years after a successful double mastectomy — had returned not in her breasts but as a small spot on her lung. She told me that treatment would be swift and that she'd be fine.
I was 29 and knew nothing about cancer. She was my mom, and I believed her. Four months later, I started Mother's Day weekend in the ER hearing the worst news possible from a complete stranger.
Sometimes I daydream about how I could have spent that time with her had I known beforehand. I wonder whether I would've been strong for us or fallen apart. Either way, I would've preferred knowing the full truth.
I've had some residual anger with my mom for not allowing me to comfort her during those months before her death, even though I know she didn't realize they were in fact the final days.
I may not have had those months to process the reality of my mother's diagnosis or properly prepare for her death. But I've taken solace in knowing I was there by her side those last few days when it mattered most. In the end, I can hold on to that.