Wednesday, October 14, 2015 // The Statement
6B
Personal Statement: My mother’s strength
by Jen Calfas, Editor in Chief
T
he room, dark and quiet — except for the slow,
concentrated steps we made. Her eyes, closed; her
mouth, frowning.
The doctors told us to wake her up, but they were
nowhere to be found. My aunt and dad grabbed each of her
hands with a soft touch, and whispered.
Her eyes came up slowly, and she furrowed her brow.
I stood at the end of the long bed, but she didn’t see me.
“The lymph nodes...” my mom inquired, groggy, confused,
in pain.
“You’re clear,” my dad whispered, his eyes wide. “There
is no cancer in your lymph nodes.”
My mom didn’t believe him. Her memory lasted just a
few moments until she asked again: “The lymph nodes?”
After several reminders, her eyes opened widely. “Where’s
Jen? Is she here?”
I took my dad’s place and held her hand. “I’m so happy
you’re here. Thank you, Jen.”
I didn’t recognize the tears forming in my eyes until
three small drops hit her white sheets. I quickly wiped the
wet marks streaming down my face when she looked at my
aunt. At this moment, she moved her hands to feel where
her breasts once were, and winced.
***
My mom told me she had breast cancer at the end of my
junior year of college. The news hit us hard. Never did I
ever imagine something touching the indestructable. How
could something like this happen to a woman who caught a
snake and asked if I wanted to hold it, too, when I was just
nine years old? The woman who encouraged me to play on
the arborous hillside by our suburban house, to get scrapes
and scars on my knees, to save the lizard my cat brought
into the house for show?
She first told me after I returned home to California this
May. I was registered for a half marathon in Santa Barba-
ra in a few days, so I went for a long run my first morning
back. Before returning home, I texted my mom: “Can we
ride the horses today?” “Possibly!”
Possibly! didn’t feel right. I locked my phone and drove
home.
I came through our back door to find my parents sitting
in the kitchen, waiting. I followed them to our living room,
confused by their serious faces. My chest filled with dif-
ficulty with each breath.
“I found a lump in my breast,” my mom said, her voice
wobbling. Before she said anything else, I started crying.
“It’s breast cancer,” she finished after my hands already
covered my face.
My breathing grew more difficult; my tears more full;
my stomach more twisted. But it cleared over time. I real-
ized that after 21 years of her unwavering support, care and
comfort, it was my responsibility to provide the same for
her.
***
Several days later, my mom and I were down working in
our barn and missed more than ten calls from my dad. We
came back to find a message from him saying the doctors at
the University of Southern California’s Keck Medical Cen-
ter would be able to squeeze my mom’s double mastectomy
in on Thursday. It was Monday.
At first I smiled giddily at my mom. I knew she wanted
the cancer out immediately, and this surgery would do just
that. But, after a few moments of excitement, she broke
down. Thursday was so soon — she wasn’t mentally ready.
As she sat in her chair at her desk, I wrapped my arms
around her for I’m not sure how long. Eventually I lowered
to the floor, leaned against her legs, and watched mindless
TV with her for the rest of the night.
The next few days were a blur. My parents had appoint-
ment after appointment in Downtown; my aunt flew from
Gilroy; I asked my then-boyfriend to cancel his visit to Cal-
ifornia the upcoming weekend (which, of course, my self-
less mom felt horrible about).
And then it was finally Thursday. My dad and aunt went
to the hospital with my mom while I stayed at home. “The
surgery will be a while,” my dad told me. “You should come
around 6:00 or 7:00 to be there when she wakes up.”
So I waited.
***
Something hit me when I saw my mother, without her
breasts, in her hospital gown that Thursday evening. It
went beyond the cancer — or, at this point, lack thereof
— that poisoned my mother and threatened her life. I feel
immature to have been taken aback by my mother’s imme-
diate physical change, but I can’t hide from it.
Her most maternal physical attributes were gone, and
I couldn’t quite comprehend it. And I still can’t. Though
her final reconstructive surgery will be just days after this
article is published, I will always remember that feeling.
The feeling of growing up, of caring for another person far
more than yourself, of weakness and strength all at once.
My mother, a survivor, is indestructible. I always knew
this about her: she was the youngest of six in a single-moth-
er home; she began working at 14 to save money for college;
she sacrificed her teaching career to take care of me and
my two sisters; she loves us unequivocally. And she’s been
through much more strife that I can’t put into words here.
It was my turn to be strong for her. During her stay at
the hospital, I only exited the room once to cry; seeing her
in pain was so difficult. But through all the pain, she was
never worried about herself — she was worried about how
me and my sisters were doing. And I had to show her how
her strength inspired us to be a support system for her now.
Months later, my mom always reminds me of how fortu-
nate it was that her diagnosis and surgery happened during
my longest period of time at home in nearly two years (and
likely from now on). But since the summer, the conversa-
tion has returned to my antics: my recent breakup, my job
at The Michigan Daily, my nerves about life post-grad. My
mom has returned to a position of stability and support for
me, and I have not stayed the same support system for her
as I was for those few weeks several months ago.
Perhaps some day I’ll be like her. Until then, I’ll try to
follow her lead.