Breast Cancer Made Me a Better Mother

I first noticed the cancer after putting my toddler son to bed. The lump was about the size of a peanut M&M, protruding from the outer curve of my left breast. I ran my fingers over it, feeling the unnatural hardness, unmoved under my touch. At first I dismissed it as simply a clogged duct — I’d had them several times while I breastfed my son — but this felt unlike the clumps of milk I’d experienced in the past.

Soon I’d discover the lump wasn’t merely a clog; it was Stage II invasive ductal carcinoma. Breast cancer. I was 37 years old, and my son was only 20 months.

I lost my own mother unexpectedly in a car accident just shy of my 22nd birthday. Though technically an adult at the time, I still desperately needed my mother, and even more than 15 years later, her loss continued to cast a shadow over my life. Now I faced the prospect of possibly leaving my young son to suffer with the same void. And even worse, because he was so young, I was terrified I’d die before he was old enough to remember me.

A few weeks later I began treatment — a gauntlet of intense chemotherapy, bilateral mastectomy, reconstruction and a preventative oophorectomy since I also tested positive for the BRCA gene mutation that not only caused my breast cancer, but also put me at a higher risk for ovarian and other cancers, as well. As the debilitating chemo fatigue set in, and my hair began to cascade from my scalp in fluffy clumps, my child remained blessedly unaware of what was actually happening to his mother. He would pat my bald head with his chubby little hands, exclaiming, “Mommy hair gone!” And I’d smile and nod as happily as I could in return, an assurance that this was nothing of concern.

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A post shared by Jennifer Bringle (@jbhandy78)

At the conclusion of treatment, I received the best possible outcome — no evidence of disease. But as my hair began to grow back and I started wading through the post-cancer emotional detritus in an attempt to move on with my life, I simply couldn’t shake the lingering fear that I still might die sooner than anticipated, that I might be forced to leave my son motherless while he’s still young. At night I would cling to him, sobbing quietly as he fell asleep in my arms, bargaining with God to let me see him grow up.