by Nneoma Chukwueke

 

“Well, we clung; clung to our mother with every breath that we had – that she had.”

 

I’ve told this story a thousand times, and yet, retelling it becomes no easier.

I was nine: so young, so vulnerable, only just aware of my surroundings, but old enough to recognize loss. It was at this tender age that my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, a disease with the potential to be either transitory or terminal, to inspire either a proud engraving on a milestone or a lachrymose inscription on a gravestone. When the news reached my family and me, our lives – previously animated, punctuated by our careless worries of tests and friends – slowly came to a standstill. Our once colorful lives were forced to exist in shades of dismal gray.

What does one do in such a situation? Simply cry? Fall into depression? Maintain the façade that nothing has changed? Well, we clung; clung to our mother with every breath that we had – that she had. My family and I watched my mother deteriorate – a harsh, but literal word to describe what the hours spent in chemotherapy, the resultant hair-loss, and her continued presence at work had all done to her. Wigs veiled her balding scalp, a scalp that had once sported lush, black locks of hair. It seemed to me that these wigs were doing more than just covering her receding hairline; they were the picture of every other measure enacted so that my mother could uphold the veneer that everything was all right. Nevertheless, we knew—and she knew—that this was far from the truth: she was dying before our eyes. And all we could do was pray with every fiber of our beings that we would all make it through.

Did we treat her more nicely? Spend more time with her? Did we stay on our best behavior just so she could have positive memories of her last days with her family? Likely so. Does that mean we stopped acting as if our days with her were numbered? Of course not. So we waited on  proverbial pins and needles, awaited that dreaded verdict that would tell us when our mother would . . . when we would no longer have our mother to sing to us, to tuck us into bed, to soothe our pain, to ease our troubles with her mellifluous manner.

When you’re young, and you’re both forced to assume the staggering burden of responsibility and face the dreaded reality of mortality, your perception of life is drastically altered—shattered, even. I wanted to believe that my mother would survive; her birthday was so soon! The big four- oh was approaching; the joyous hymn celebrating life couldn’t possibly turn into a painful dirge . . . because I wanted her to see me off to high school, to college, to share my elation and my heartache when nobody else could; I wanted her to choose a wedding dress; I wanted her outspoken, honest, lovingly brash voice to be the voice of reason when I felt like the world was spinning rapidly out of control. So she couldn’t leave us—me—now… we still needed her.

I soon realized, though, that the chance of her recovery was slim at best. The sympathetic gazes of my teachers, friends, and even my mother’s coworkers were not lost on me. They all seemed to say, Sorry for your loss. Initially, I refused to acknowledge these people, but my resolve was beginning to fail. Countless mothers, daughters, sisters, friends had fallen prey to this disease . . . what made my mother any different? No! I thought fiercely. I couldn’t start feeling defeated already. Yet, the implications of this knowledge, that so many other women just like my mother had died because of breast cancer and that little could be done to prevent such a fate, were not lost on me, and a wave of sadness threatened to drown me as I tried to choke back my tears. One day I fled to the safety of my room and clutched my sides as if, somehow, this would hide me, and stop the pain that had seized my heart, but I knew that any such thoughts were futile. So I let the tears fall, one fat drop after another; let them speak volumes of the heartache inside me when I could not utter even a single word. For a moment, I allowed my sadness to consume me; I let myself consider a world without my mother—and I collapsed in a fit of gut-wrenching sobs. It seemed to me like my prayers had fallen on deaf ears. But didn’t God understand? This wasn’t some immaterial plea for a doll or a superfluous request for a pony, this was my mother—what on earth was I to do without her? There I lay, receding into an impenetrable bleakness that was sure to follow my mother’s death—a death that, by now, I had come to accept. But then, in the smallest, stillest of voices came the words, “When the world says, ‘Give up,’ . . . Hope whispers, try it one more time.’” Hope. Amidst all of my self-pity, I had overlooked something as invaluable as hope. Hope was the “thing with feathers”, right? Could it possibly give me wings when it seemed like the world was determined to make my grief permanent? One last prayer formed on my lips, my tear-streaked face upturned and my raw throat unable to utter more than a single word, a word I hoped was enough—“Please . . . .”

One fateful day, weeks later, a diagnosis came. Scarcely a breath could be taken, for the verdict that delivered the fate, which now controlled the invaluable life of this amazing woman lay within the flimsy encasement that manila envelopes offer. I couldn’t even begin to contemplate what the future would look like, especially if – if—the thought we feared the most became an all-too-real nightmare. Time was suspended in that moment, brought to a screeching halt by the mere possibility of the onslaught of seemingly imminent pain and misfortune. Our anxiety got the better of us, however, and we wrenched open the dispatch. Eyes shut tight soon had to open, for there was no denying the truth—hidden only momentarily in the letter— that our mother was okay! She was cured of the frightful cancer and free to have us for at least, one more day. She was free to love us unconditionally; free to pray with us; free to teach us how to cook; free to assume her rightful position as a mother and not a memory; free to live. As quickly as our lives had sobered, they were normal again. Well, almost normal. Can anyone truly call life “normal” after such an experience?

Since my mother’s encounter with cancer, I cherish life and my loved ones infinitely more.  Before, I had taken each day for granted, moving from day-to-day without considering life’s unparalleled beauty. Contrarily, my mother’s near-fatal diagnosis taught me to value life, to love others while we still have time together. I also realized that I could no longer disregard cancer’s infamy; I could no longer proffer a paltry apology in an attempt to assuage the insuperable grief of losing a loved one; I could not possibly let this anathema befall anyone else. As a result, I decided to do what I could, to be the change that I wish to see in others. I decided to be a Relay for Life Representative at my school, communicating the fatality of cancer and helping raise money for cancer walks and the like. Cancer means so much more to me now than just a disease, and I eagerly await the day that its coveted cure is found. Until then, however, I’ll live—and love—to the fullest, because I don’t want to begin to appreciate what I have, who I have, after it’s gone. This resulting compassion changed my character as well—whenever I encountered other cancer patients or their family members, my heart would ache with the pain that only a person who has been in a similar situation could feel. Instead of gazing in that same, sad way that all those people looked at me so many years ago, however, I speak words of hope. Because hope truly does have wings, and the awe-inspiring capability to lift even the heaviest of burdens off one’s chest, to make the difference between slipping into depression and merely slipping, only to rise up again with the belief that life goes on, regardless of how painful the present may seem.

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Nneoma Chukwueke is an undergrad at Emory University. She’s a Relay for Life Representative – an event body used to raise cancer awareness and funds for cancer research.

30 Days, 30 Voices series is an opportunity for young Nigerians from across the world to share their stories and experiences – creating a meeting point where our common humanity is explored.

Op-ed pieces and contributions are the opinions of the writers only and do not represent the opinions of Y!/YNaija.