I Was the World’s Worst Cancer Mom

The cancer ward (and my Insta feed) were filled with picture-perfect moms moving heaven and earth for their sick kids. Meanwhile, I spiraled into heavy drinking, depression and self-destruction.

Collage by Yunuen Bonaparte | Story edited by Brendan Spiegel

My truck pulled to the right, barreling over the rumble strip as my eyes drifted closed. By the time I hit the highway’s guardrail, my chin was on my chest. I snapped out of the haze of my hangover just as my truck jolted against the concrete barrier. I yanked the wheel to the left, overcorrecting so hard my tires spit gravel. If there had been a car in the middle lane, I would have broadsided them.

I drove the rest of the way to the hospital with all four windows rolled down, the cold night air slapping my face raw. My spine was so straight it ached and the seatbelt dug into my chest. “Control,” I repeated to myself over and over, letting my fingers turn white with the force of my grip on the wheel as Taylor Swift blared out of the speakers at full volume to keep me awake. Control, control, control.

When I finally pulled into the hospital parking lot, my hands were shaking and my stomach churned. A sour heat crawled up my throat, and I leaned out of the truck, retching. Slimy yellow bile spattered onto the white lines of the parking space. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, ignoring the sting in my nose. My limbs were like sandbags and my eyes felt hot and dry. I pulled lungfuls of air in and sighed them out in sobs, burying my mouth in my sleeve to muffle the sounds of my crying.

My phone dinged — a text from my 8-year-old daughter. She’d sent a selfie with one of those floating cartoon duck filters plastered over her face.

Quack quack, mom! Are you here??

I trudged inside. As the doors slid open at the fifth-floor oncology unit, the after-hours fluorescent glow of the hospital took over. I looked at the smiling nurse who buzzed me in and forced my lips to stretch in response. A smell hit me, flooding my nostrils, making my eyes water — lavender and bergamot.

One of the other moms on the cancer floor stepped out of her room. Her leggings were printed with gold ribbons and text that read Fight! Strong! Win! Across the front of her fitted baseball tee, Scotty Strong was printed in black script, and she wore glittery slippers I’d seen sold on the Momcology website (which didn’t come in my size). She looked like the product of a Pinterest board titled Cancer Moms Are Heroes!
“Hey, mama,” she said in a loud whisper, the kind people use when they’re pretending to be quiet but don’t want to be ignored. “Just getting in?”

I nodded. “Yeah, really tired.” I tried to edge past her toward Carolyn’s room.

“Lavender?” she asked, shoving a tiny glass vial into my face. “It’s calming!”
I stared at the bottle and considered the fortitude of faith required to believe that something like lavender oil could combat the persistent stink of industrial disinfectant and our kids’ vomit. I caught a whiff of something sharp and sour, like old milk and iron, and then realized it was me. I’d been wearing the same stained period underwear for three days and my hair and breath smelled like the wine I’d thrown up earlier that morning.

Frustration flooded me like a hot tap. I hated this ideal mom who probably didn’t work and who kept her kid’s room smelling like a yoga studio, who wore stupid gold slippers and gold-ribbon leggings that were probably manufactured in a factory that utilizes chemicals that increase the risk of cancer, like her kid had right now. My mouth opened before my brain could stop it.

“Essential oils are bullshit.”

The Ideal Cancer Mom stared at me, her face tight. “I’m praying for you, mama,” she said, pocketing the bottle.

I seethed as I walked to Carolyn’s room, though my flare-up subsided as quickly as it had come on. I hadn’t meant what I’d said to her. I love lavender oil. What I meant to say was, How do you do it? How do you show up here every day with hope packed in your back pocket?