How I navigated my journey to motherhood after losing my own mom to breast cancer
She had started a new journal on the day of my fourth birthday. Her first entry detailed the sweet morning rituals – presents in my parents’ seemingly enormous bed, cuddles, shared sips of her tea before an excursion to the beach for sandwiches and cake.
The second entry was stripped of all the golden glow of the first. She had found a lump in her breast. My mumma died two months before my fifth birthday. She was 48.
My memories of that passage of time are as hazy as you would expect for a little girl with no frame of reference for chemotherapy, radiation or breast cancer. How would you raise a daughter while grappling with a diagnosis that promised little chance of survival?
I’ll never know. I only have my own searing memories. The suffocating sadness that made every interaction with others awkward, the angry scabs on her chest and back after radiation treatment and snuggling into her side in her hospital bed.
And then, when she was gone, it felt like everything collapsed, for my father especially. How do you heal your children’s broken hearts when your own heart has shattered into pieces?
The heartache of my childhood without her rolled on into adolescence. There was an abundance of happy memories, yes, but every milestone, every Mother’s Day, every step of forward momen- tum was in some way marred by her absence.
But my own path to motherhood was perhaps the most acute reminder of her loss. How do you begin such a momentous journey without really knowing the full picture of your own arrival? What was her path to pregnancy? Did she miscarry like I did? Did she wish on every full moon for a daughter too? Why did I have to navigate this without her?
So many pieces of the puzzle evaded me. And, when I fell pregnant with my daughter, being without my mother was devastating, almost infuriating though offset by the immense privilege of carrying new life. There were so many ways that I needed my mum. I needed her knowledge, her experience, her advice, her support. But mostly, I needed her love.
Soon enough, my glorious girl – Frankie Moon – arrived. I was her mumma. I knew I would love her endlessly, but the force of my love for her rocked me to the core. The millions of questions I had for my mumma were added to as I navigated this total revolution of life with my dream girl, finding our rhythm, learning each other’s languages and luxuriating in this sparkling love.
But, as every new mom will know, the early days of postpartum can sparkle with love but they can dazzle with darkness too. And all too often I felt like that little girl again, desperate to be held by her mother. Instead, I held my daughter close and treasured our precious bond, growing and growing as she did every single day.
Now, as my daughter turns three years old, I’ve moved through a lot of the grief that emerged early in my journey to becoming a mother. Although I’m devastated that Frankie Moon won’t be guided by her as a grandmother, there are different forces at play that will shape her life.
I have found that my mother’s early departure has amplified my connection with my daughter. I’m under no illusions about the fleeting nature of time, and I’m painfully aware that I only had my mother for five years. The thought of leaving Frankie Moon so soon is too much to bear, it’s un- fathomable. I feel fiercely protective about ensuring that I’m doing everything I can to be with her for as long as possible.
That includes keeping my yearly appointment for a mammogram and breast ultrasound. It forces me to be in tune with my body and note fluctuations and shifts. It demands that I remain aware that things can change in a second.
So, as we honor Breast Cancer Awareness Month, I urge you to make that GP appointment, check your breasts and be aware of the symptoms of breast cancer.
Do it for your children and do it for yourself. They can’t do life without you, mama.
