I lost my mom to cancer when I was just eight years old. This wasn’t the swift, cinematic version of illness; it was two grueling years filled with hospital stays, wheelchairs, and oxygen tanks invading our home. I remember accompanying her to chemotherapy sessions with a barf bucket in the front seat, all while being shuffled back and forth to relatives’ homes, where everyone tried to convince me these were thrilling adventures.
As a result, I’ve always felt like a specter—an echo of her. I bear an uncanny resemblance to my mother. My relationship with my father has always been strained; those close to him would often say, “He lost her once. He’s afraid to get too close to you and lose you too.” What a comforting thought for a daughter. My grandmother indulged in nostalgia during her later years, often calling me by my mother’s name. At her funeral, several people mistook me for Janeen due to my similar mannerisms and even my walk.
Growing up was peculiar. While divorce rates were soaring and becoming common in schools, no one knew how to approach my situation. Throughout my education, I was often urged to connect with Tom, another boy who had also lost his mother. We were the “marked ones,” but no one could facilitate a real conversation, and a connection never materialized. Ironically, we became friends in high school, yet we never discussed our shared loss during our countless hours on the couch.
Being my mother’s daughter has shaped the best and worst aspects of my life, leaving me without a clear path forward. With limited communication at home, focusing on Mom became a source of comfort. While other kids played with imaginary friends, my imaginary companion was my mother. Yes, I was the quirky child who detailed the lower intestine in school projects while dreaming of becoming a microbiologist—something I wouldn’t dare touch today.
As an adult, I found my calling in philanthropy. I spent four years working for the American Cancer Society and volunteering extensively. I organized events that raised substantial funds and united thousands in the fight against cancer. I connected with patients and their families, including those left behind—like me. It was fulfilling but also overwhelming. At one point, I realized my life was still revolving around someone who wasn’t there. Although I was passionate about the work, I needed to step away from the constant reminders of cancer.
I changed jobs and found myself pregnant almost immediately. I read about “Motherless Mothers” and learned that I would likely block out my daughter’s eighth year. Mark your calendars—I’m preparing for a year-long emotional hiatus.
Fast forward 27 years: I’m now a stay-at-home mom to two little ones, both under two years old. My life has transformed in ways that eerily mirror my mother’s. She had no career ambitions—her dream was to be a homemaker. I always envisioned a career, but circumstances led me to stay at home. My days are filled with laundry, cleaning up fingerprints (which mysteriously belong to my husband, not the kids), and wishing I could post a sign that reads: “I used to smell like something other than baby vomit and Cheerios.”
These days, I grapple with the absence of that phone call. I have wonderful friends and a supportive network of mothers, yet, even at 35, I still experience those “I want my Mommy” days. I long to call her to ask if I can send the kids to the gypsies, or why she chose to be a stay-at-home mom. I want to know how she managed through chemotherapy while handling two young kids when I struggle to make dinner while healthy. I wish I could hear her laughter as she recognizes the payback I’m getting for being a sassy toddler.
I want her guidance on styling Abby’s hair or teaching her makeup tips—skills I never learned. Most importantly, I want her to tell me what comes next.
In the meantime, feeling a disconnect from history, I document every moment of my kids’ lives. I blog about it, I save each memory. I’m always seeking new adventures and trying to enjoy every second. Whenever someone remarks on how Abby is “just like her mother,” I reflect on the fragile line between our past and the creation of our own identities. My mom didn’t have the chance to help shape her canvas for as long as she intended, and while I may be winging it, I aspire to help my daughter find her balance.
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