Julie Helen: Mum shows incredible resilience at every turn

A couple of years ago, I wrote about my Mum having cancer, and then it sort of hung in the air.

It wasn’t that her cancer went away; she went through surgery, chemotherapy, lost her hair, got a wig, her hair grew back.

The hair is the thing everyone notices; it’s like a glowing beacon of a tractor, particularly when it’s not there. The chemotherapy was debilitating and way harder than I know Mum would articulate.

Mum has had reoccurrences. We are not holding our breaths, hoping for a cure. Before every scan, about every three months, we hope for something manageable, something where there’s a plan of action.

I haven’t written on the subject of cancer because it’s not my story to tell all the time. Going through cancer is Mum’s story and Dad’s, along with her as her life partner. They have a whole sphere of life as husband and wife that belongs to only them.

Watching the strength of their bond and the dynamics between them has taught me a lot about what true love looks like and how growing together, facing things together, is all we get, and it’s how we navigate the tough bits that shape our experience. Importantly, how we feel can change.

I have a role in Mum’s cancer story because I am her only daughter and she is my only Mum. I am my Dad’s only daughter, and he is my only Dad. It sounds simple when I put it like that, but I hope it portrays the importance both hold in my life, so I want to be there with them to enjoy things with them and face the tough bits.

For months, cancer would be the first thing to enter my head when I woke, how unfair it was, and how I just wanted it to disappear, for Mum, for Dad, and for us all.

One day, somebody asked me how Mum was when I was feeling particularly down about the situation, and I explained honestly how I thought she was dealing with things a lot better than I was. When the person moved on, I considered what I had said, and it gave me a jolt.

How dare I be more upset than Mum. She is enduring the illness, she is living with the uncertainty, the pain, the fatigue, and all the worry.

I get to be with her, around her, near her, and I should be cherishing that rather than feeling sorry for myself.

I worry about not being able to help enough, not being there enough, or being there too much, or asking her too many questions or not enough questions.

Then I go home and see my mother having squashed her hair into a juvenile GAA helmet running around the lawn with her grandsons, laughing that gorgeous laugh of hers, and I realise it’s her lead I should take, to do the silly thing that makes a memory and to be in the ordinary moments that we just want more of.

I’m not saying I want to shy away from the reality of cancer.

I make sure I am at home after every scan, because I can hear Mum tell the story and talk it out with her and Dad.

Mum had radiotherapy therapy in June, and her most recent scan showed it worked, but there’s another small tumour to deal with, hopefully with surgery.

As I listened, it was the first time in a long time I wasn’t gulping back tears because we are getting used to the language, the plans, the treatment, and the incredible resilience my Mum employs at every turn.