My mom was given two choices: undergo an operation to remove the cancer mass and bleed to death, or keep the ticking time bomb and let nature run its course. She opted for the second one, and nature decided to be both kind and cruel. Kind, because she lived longer than the three months the doctors predicted she would live. Cruel, because of all the days she passed away, it had to be three days before my brother's 5th birthday.
I vividly remember what she looked like as she laid during the wake. I easily recall her brown skin cloaked in a cream-colored gown that accentuated her jet black hair, crisp curled eyelashes, and her pump lips. She looked as if heaven itself had laid there in front of me. Yet in the midst of this tranquility, misery was present. There was a black man across the room, spiffy in his black suit as if he was a groom about to wed. But instead of tears of joy, his voice resounded in shrills of agonizing sobs. He looked as if he lost control of his body, staggering and hunching over with his head down in the handkerchief in his hand. He was clearly not getting married, yet the phrase "'til death do us part" had its place in the matter. "Do us part" was now. That man was my mother's husband. And that man is my father.
My mom's funeral took place in the summer of 1999 in the west coast of Canada. And not too long afterward, my father, my brother, and I moved to The States. It was a rough transition to say the least, especially considering the Mother's Day events that I had to endure during elementary school. My seven-year-old self was determined to keep it together, cutting out those colored construction paper hearts for the presents I was assigned to make. I forced myself not to cry while I made those whimsical flower cards. I held my best poker face, looking as if I was participating with the purpose of giving my handmade gifts to my mom. But sometimes, no matter how hard you try to hold your best poker face, the cards you have been dealt in life are too much to handle and you fold. And so, when no one was around, I sobbed. I allowed paper to be the one that bore my pain, filling notebooks with the anguish of her loss and memories of her presence. Those moments marked the beginning of a love affair that will never end; looking back, I realize that my mom's death gave birth to my passion for writing.
My mom's death gave birth to a lot of other things in my life. Looking back on my days as a biochemistry major, I recall how I would pay special attention to the cancer topics without really trying. I would talk about the subject with more interest than any other biological topic. And in the courses where I was given the freedom to choose whatever subject I wanted to discuss in a speech or in a paper, I chose cancer. And in every instance, I was successful.
I do not consider this a coincidence. I believe that my mom had everything to do with it. My natural enthusiasm and ability to engage with that topic was because of her. And more importantly, it is because of my mom that I have such a big heart for advocating for cancer survivors, the precious souls no longer with us, and their loyal loved ones.
Late last year, I began volunteering with the Moreno Valley chapter of the American Cancer Society to prepare for Relay for Life, an "organized, overnight community fundraising walk." While I am aware of the structure of the event, I know that it is another thing to experience it firsthand. I know that my mom will be watching over me and I believe that her heart will smile at the number of us taking a stand against cancer.
My brain is well-aware of the fact that my mom is not coming back, but 17 years later, it seems like my heart refuses to accept her absence. I still have the same daydream I had of her as a kid; I envision her in that same cream colored outfit she wore in her casket, but this time, she is standing with a suitcase in hand, a Sunday hat on her head, and a smile on her face, waiting for me in front of the doorway. The last time I had this daydream was two days ago and the pain of loss randomly hit me again as I thought about my mother.
See, that's the thing with grief. It's not something you get over. It is not a temporary acquaintance that comes by and leaves eventually. Grief enters your life and gets comfortable without your permission. It moves into the rooms of your heart and makes a home out of its chambers. Grief is not a temporary visitor. Grief is here for life. There are times when grief is dormant. But when grief randomly roams about, your soul aches.
Even with the unexpected moments of sorrow, I know that grief has silver linings. I think of the power of solidarity and how events like Relay for Life are helpful to those who know the devastation of losing someone to cancer. Solidarity allows people who may not know cancer's pain to be empathy in motion, literally walking alongside those who know the pain of cancer firsthand, and those who know the pain of witnessing their loved one suffering from it. For those like myself who have lost loved ones to the disease, it allows us to exercise our journey with grief in a way that brings comfort to ourselves and others simultaneously. After all, the pain of losing someone to cancer is not an event. Grief is not something that begins and eventually ends. However, I will wholeheartedly take the opportunity to exercise my grief in a way that unites likeminded people in the fight against cancer. And I know that others will join me in that fight.
If Relay For Life is something you would like to be a part of, click here to find the nearest event in your area.