Sense of Then

I had breast cancer. My first biopsy was in late July 2023, two years into living in Los Angeles, and by September I underwent bilateral lumpectomies — DCIS on the left, stage one on the right. I was used to handling healthcare on my own, so the visits, mammograms, diagnoses, surgeries, treatment plans — I just took in the information myself. Having limited experience with healthy emotional regulation at the time, being in a long-term relationship with someone who has his own trauma and emotional dysregulation, and not knowing how to rely on someone in a healthy way, my breast cancer experience was very lonely.

My mother sent me flowers. I think she found out from social media. I tried to reach out to female family members to talk about it, framing a lot of it as important to their family health history — but cancer, it seems, is something people don’t want to talk about someone else having. As if it made them likely, too. My mother did tell me, later, after my surgeries, what her risk assessment number was, and asked if I thought she should get further screening. I told her she should listen to her doctor’s advice, not mine; I didn’t go to medical school. Then she mostly wanted to know about the hold-up to radiation — though it seemed more like she wanted to know so she could update her friends, less because of how it may have impacted me. By the time I started radiation, I was already receiving the silent treatment for my SI and associated mental health social media posts. So there was no need for her to be available for me by then, anyway.

In the two years between moving away and being diagnosed, I had dropped off the radar for my mother, sister, and stepdad. In the first couple of years I sent mail, cards, stickers — to my sister and her kids, to my mother and stepdad. My sister and her kids never sent anything in return, and my mother stuck to her cards-for-birthdays-only pattern with me. I kept texting my mom and sister, asking them to visit, sending links to hotels near my apartment, trying to talk to them about how things are here. In hindsight, they didn’t want that contact. I was reaching out, thinking distance makes the heart grow fonder — hoping to finally have the kind of relationship with them that they have with each other. Distance does not make their hearts grow fonder. Just quieter. I couldn’t see the distance while I was busy trying to fill it up.

I did heal enough, after my mental health crisis, to find a therapist. I started seeing her weekly in July 2024, and I still see her every other week now. The birthday cards aren’t consistent for my birthday, but they are for the two adult kids who live with me — my mother’s grandchildren. The Christmas presents either do not arrive for me, or they are generic for anyone, while being a grandparent is still something she’s attentive to. I am her adult child, and I live here, too. That part doesn’t seem to register the same way. It’s difficult to not take it personally, and therapy helps with this.