À Ma Mère by PrincessDoom13

When I was only ten, I was forced to grow up and my world first began to crumble beneath the weight of my mother’s disease. My mother, a woman already waddling with the heaviness of a fifth pregnancy, had survived through the unthinkable: giving birth to not one, but five children, going through a tumultuous marriage, which ultimately ended in divorce, and now this ordeal was set before her… to choose her own life, or that of my unborn brother. 

It seemed that we, mother and daughter united, had created an unbreakable bond, which no man, money, or unpaid utility bill could ever break. And yet these bonds were further strengthened one day, when I finally understood how easily lives could be taken away. My mother called me into her room (or what could be considered a room when one lived in a two bedroom apartment) and asked me to sit on the sunken mattress with her, which sat on the floor, for a bed frame was considered a luxury. She began to speak many times, but the power of speech was lost to her. I attempted to focus on her; I knew that there was a very important reason as to why I was there alone with her, not accompanied by a crying, hungry baby, or nagging, irate brothers. Amidst the stench of baby powder and week old baby food jars, she stated bluntly, “I have cancer.” The syllable and finality of the situation seemingly reverberated off the bare, paint-peeling, lonely walls as the news permeated throughout the room and my soul, and my eyes began to well with infantile, but filial tears. The foundation of my building was giving way and I was trapped under the rubble, escape a long way off. I was losing my mother, but gaining a brother. 

After the birth of my fourth brother, she began cancer treatment. The doctors had deemed her Stage IV breast cancer as terminal, giving her a mere twelve months to live the rest of her life. My mother, being the natural fighter that she was did not let this prognosis bother her. She continued taking chemotherapy and radiation sessions, while also taking her innumerable pills. Month twelve came and went, and she was placed into Hospice care, for her body had reached such a state where she could no longer physically take care of herself. I respect and admire that she had held up for so long, however, our roles had become reversed. I was now the primary care giver, (making sure that the children, my four younger brothers ranging in age from newborn to eight, were out of bed, dressed, and ready for school, while also cooking breakfast), whereas she was now the sick child who I had to care for and make sure she took all her medication and still find time to complete my fifth grade homework. As the fifteenth and sixteenth months rolled around, and as my responsibility and emotional endurance had strengthened even more, her health exponentially declined. What had started out as a simple cold had deteriorated into a coma. She had fought so hard and lived past the doctors’ (and everyone else’s) expectations. And on that one fateful day I ran home from school, for the counselor called me in to console me on my “loss”, which could only mean one thing… but as I had learned while being forced to grow up so soon, it was a terrible to make assumptions. As I reached the front door of our apartment, I pounded the door with a force unknown to a girl of eleven. As the doorknob turned, I half expected to be enveloped with either the aroma of freshly cooked tortillas or greeted by a woman with curls reminiscent of icing roses on a birthday cake. Instead it was my father and the stench of strong men’s cologne that halted me. This man, whom I held hardly any respect for (at the time) and whom I resented for abandoning my four brothers and I, was the only parent I found at home, and he would remain so evermore, just as my love, admiration and respect for my mother will remain without end. 

At the funeral, my lachrymose tears were infinite. My mother’s life, courage, and love were celebrated through powerful Southern hymns and mournful speeches said. “Her courage to stick through the toughest situation was something to be imitated…” my Godmother stated during the funeral. I burst into tears and began to sob heavily. My father offered rigid consolation, but I declined with retreat in the opposite direction. My mother had shaped me into the strong, willed, vibrant person that I am today. Her hardships were my hardships, and they strengthened me. Once upon a time, I was a quiet, meekly, under spoken, and irresponsible girl, caring for no one but myself. However, after the divorce, I learned responsibility and how to care for my family. After her diagnosis, I learned to speak my mind, to be courageous, and most of all, I learned how it was to be a mother. I learned the effort that it takes to fight against cancer and still keep a family (mostly) together while also keeping academics decent. 

As I moved into a small, one bedroom apartment with the man I had resented, I began to cope with the loss of my mother and with giving up the primary role within the household. I had learned responsibility, time management, and the importance of caring for family. Through the span of eighteen months, I had turned from selfish adolescence into responsible, young womanhood. Thanks to my mother’s self-sacrifice, I had gained a brother. However, I did not lose her, I gained an angel.