Reflections

I watched her long blonde hair fall to the ground, as tears ran down my face. I turned on the electric razor and started shaving the rest of her head. She grabbed the salon chair, and tears trickled down her cheeks. I was seven years old when my mom was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer. Looking back on every event that happened throughout the whole experience, I learned a very important lesson.  A woman’s appearance can be taken away but never her strength. 

With today’s beauty standards, it is hard to always fit in. Although, when life throws you rock, you have to go with what you have. My mom’s rock was chemotherapy.  She would not only lose her breasts due to cancer but now, also her hair. Taking these things away can be mentally destroying to a woman.  But my mom showed me that appearance does not always matter, it's the kindness in your heart. Dina Marie Roseberry is my mom, my role model, my safe haven, and a breast cancer survivor. Having someone in the family with breast cancer is not just a struggle for the patient but also for the family. It is even more of a struggle when you are a mother of seven children and diagnosed with cancer. I can remember almost every detail of everything that happened; every tear, every smile, and every memory. My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer on May 1st, 2013. She finished chemotherapy on October 10th, 2013. I remember the first talk my siblings and I had with my dad. We all sat on my parent’s bed and my dad told us about the risks. I was told that there was a large chance that my mom would not survive the surgery. I have never seen my dad the way he was when he was talking to us. The way he looked at us and how worried he sounded told us how broken he was. When I look back I understand why.  He was a father of seven children some of which had disabilities and telling them that they might never see their mom again.  He had to tell them that the one person who kept the house in order and everyone at peace might never come back. Nothing could ever explain the heartbreak everyone in that room felt that day. 

In the month of June, my mom started losing her hair. I would walk into her room and see tears in her eyes as they were fixed on the ball of blonde curly hair sitting in her shaking hand. In the mornings when I woke up and went to her room, there would be strips of her long hair wrapped onto the pillow. After a couple of days went past, it was getting too heartbreaking to watch anymore. She finally made an appointment to get her hair shaved. When the day came that she had to lose her hair, I was by her side the whole time. She was slowly taken to a seat in the salon, and the stylist brought over two electric razors and a pair of scissors. The first step was to put her long curly hair into a ponytail and cut it off. When that was done you could see in her face that her pride in her appearance was slowly going away. I was then handed the electric shaver, and I started shaving her hair. With every stroke of the blade going across her head,  another tear was shed. I got to the point where I could not bring myself to cut her hair any longer. I looked into her eyes and while tears ran down both our cheeks, she held me in her arms. We left the salon not as a mom with her seven-year-old baby girl, but as a strong, brave woman with her daughter. 

If you know someone who has cancer or who had it, you would know that after chemotherapy you might have to go through surgery. Depending on what stage you have and other health factors,  it determines the survival rate of the surgery. My mom had stage 3 of very aggressive cancer.  Halfway through chemotherapy, her tumor had grown larger.  They did not know if they should continue chemotherapy or go straight to the surgery.   So you could imagine a mother of seven kids, a teacher, and a loving wife going through this can be traumatizing. I was told at this young age repeatedly that my mom might not come home. When I said my final goodbyes before she left for the surgery, I looked her in the eyes and held her hand. I knew the risk that she was about to take, but I also knew she was strong. When the surgery was complete, I went to see my mom.  She was not the woman that she started the year as. She will never return to that person, although she was new. It was almost as if losing what she lost made her realize that what body she was born into, she will always have. She learned to appreciate her flaws and to be who she is and not try to fit the standards of perfection. 

In the year 2017, my mom had gained weight because of the meds she was taking. This made her hate her body.  She tried to lose weight, although it was very hard. During this year she needed to have another surgery.  There were complications from the first surgery.  This operation would replace the implants with excess fat from her stomach. This would be a 10-hour surgery and a long recovery time to follow. Sitting in the waiting room, nine hours had passed as my head hung low. I remember the feeling I felt every time a doctor walked by, and I thought it would be the one who would come to talk to us. I was so nervous that one of these doctors would be the one to tell me my mom would not be coming home. Then the moment came.  We walked down the all-white hallways and ahead of me I saw a sign that read ICU. My grandmother and I walked to the desk and requested to see my mom. We walked down to room number six and slowly opened the door. My mom laid  there with her eyes slowly opening and closing as she whispered to me, “Babygirl, it hurts.” I remember everything I felt, the way it broke me when she said those words as I held her hand. I knew she was strong, and I knew I had to be strong for her. I knew that when she recovered and heard how I went to school, got my work done, and did everything everyone asked how proud she would be of me when she returned home.

Last year she found out that she could have another surgery.  The breast that had 31 radiation treatments is significantly smaller than the other which causes a strange look to her appearance.  The plastic surgeon said she could have another surgery to even them out so they looked more natural.  She, howerer, has decided not to follow through with the operation.  She feels that her looks do not define her, and she doesn't have to fit the standard of perfection to be happy.  

The flat iron slowly glides through her short, thin blonde hair.  She smiles as we both look in the mirror at each other.  I do not just see my mom.  I see a survivor and a fighter when I look at that reflection. I see a strong, beautiful woman; and she sees her 15 year old baby girl who helped her through the unthinkable.