A Mother’s Biggest Problem
I stood in the bathroom staring at my own eyes in the mirror while my 2-year-old daughter “brushed” her teeth (read: vaguely chewed on her toothbrush). A week ago this part of the bedtime routine was driving me insane. Actually, the whole bedtime routine was driving me insane. Actually, you know what? Pretty much every aspect of parenting a toddler daughter was driving me insane.
A week ago I was reading books and articles about how to get a 2-yearold to actually go to bed at bedtime. A week ago I was researching the term “confusional arousal” (which is pretty much just a fancy term for night terrors during which your child screams for anywhere from 10 minutes to an hour straight before she comes to and realizes it’s ok to stop screaming and go back to sleep — usually conveniently timed around midnight or 1 am).
A week ago my biggest problem was that I was feeling like I was totally lost in the routine of being a working parent of a 6-year-old boy and 2-year-old girl. A week ago my biggest problem was that I was living in a fog, sleepwalking through one day after the next without feeling truly happy and fulfilled.
I stared into my eyes in the mirror while my daughter “brushed” her teeth. And I thought about how desperately I wished I could go back to those kinds of big problems. This week my biggest problem was that I was a 35-year-old healthy, active adult with breast cancer.
I stroked my daughter’s soft, fine hair and shifted my focus in the mirror to her. She met my eyes and gave me an impish smile while she continued to “brush” her teeth. I looked at her little face, with her little almond-shaped eyes, her little boop-worthy nose and her sweet little mouth. I wondered how this new biggest problem would change her life. I wondered if she would even remember it clearly when it was all said and done. I wondered if I would be given the chance to be in her life long enough for her to remember me clearly.
I thought about the things I was desperate for her to know. I wanted her to know I was more than a cancer patient. I wanted her to know who I was as a person — a writer, a dancer, a hiker, a creative, a reader. I love live music, I love the forest, I love the theater, I love the library and I love traveling. I have brown hair. Would she remember me with hair? I longed for that time, a week ago, when my biggest challenge was being her mother. Being a good mother.
“Ok, mommy I’m done. Your turn now!”
Her voice snapped me back to reality. And that reality was that I was now a cancer patient. That reality was that I had no idea at that point what my prognosis was or whether I had a realistic chance of being around long enough for my daughter to remember me clearly. That reality was that I was going to be sick for months and lose my hair from chemo. That reality was that all I wanted was to go back to those other, normal-people biggest problems.
I took my daughter’s tiny toothbrush into one hand and put the other on her back to teady her while I gave her teeth a good (actual) scrub. I listened intently to the sound of her toothbrush making little circles over her baby teeth — a weirdly soothing sound to me in that moment. I looked into her eyes and smiled warmly at her. My sweet, sassy, challenging girl. The focus of the majority of my energy at that time. At least until the treatments started, I supposed.
Would I be able to devote the energy to her that she deserved? Would she get the quality time that she craved from me in the coming months? Years? Would I still be around in 20 years when she would have to start having serious discussions with her doctors about her mother’s history of breast cancer? Triple negative invasive ductal carcinoma, grade III. I would have to make sure she knew the details. But would I even be granted the time to see her through to that? Or would it be her dad who would have to do it on her dead mother’s behalf?
I felt a drip of toothpaste (and a little drool) on my hand and my mind slid back into the moment.
“Ok, spit and rinse, and you’re all done!” I helped my daughter climb carefully (or as carefully as she would allow) down from her stool, and we continued her bedtime routine. I almost hoped for the regular chaos and defiance that had become normal for that time of day. I craved the distraction that would help me feel normal for at least a short bit of time. I would take what I could get. I would take whatever distraction I could get that night from my diagnosis and all the uncertainty that was ahead. I would take whatever time I could get to be with my daughter and her brother. I would do as much as I could to show her who I was outside of being a cancer patient.
“Good night, I love you, have sweet dreams.”
I closed her bedroom door as softly as I could and went downstairs, wondering how long it would be until she got out of bed for the first of what I was confident would be several times. I sat on the couch for about five seconds before I heard her bedroom door open and her little feet pitter-patter down the hallway. A welcome distraction from my new reality. I would take it. 🌿
Julia D.
Tabisz
Journalist and editor. Diagnosed at 35. IDC, Stage II, Triple Negative.
Julia is an editor and a mom of an 8-year-old boy and 4-year-old girl. By passion, she is a writer and a competitive Irish dancer — the latter of which she continued all through chemo treatments to help battle fatigue and nausea. She lives happily in the woods in Maryland.
“A Mother’s Biggest Problem” was published in Wildfire Journal’s 2024 “Mothers & Daughters” issue. Read the full issue; available in the shop and subscribers’ library.