My mother was 42 when she was diagnosed with triple-negative breast cancer, commonly regarded as one of the worst types due to its aggression and difficulty to treat.
I was 12 years old, in my first tender and tumultuous year of high school. My parents largely shielded me from the reality of her disease, but I now know that she was terrified and overwhelmed. She was desperate to remain here with us. Desperate for her treatment – a burdensome blend of chemotherapy, radiation and surgery – to work. Thankfully, it did. Passing years brought a string of clear mammograms and our family’s swell of shock and trauma quietly retreated.