I was diagnosed with cancer when I was twenty-five; my baby girl at the time was two, going on three. I was told I had breast cancer. I didn’t want to believe it. I was only twenty-five; I felt like I was just getting my life together: a decent job, finding a new place to live, getting a car. All that was put on hold like squealing breaks on a car. I didn’t know where to go from there. I did not know anything about cancer except for the bad things like your hair falling out and dying from it. I knew I did not want to die; I kind of refused to die. I had a strong faith in God and I believe he would not put more on you than you can bear, but I also did not want anyone else to raise my baby girl. I know that might sound bad, but I feel she only has one mother and I planned on being the best mom ever regardless of cancer. And that’s just what I tried to do.

She was really understanding at a young age when chemo took over and I was not able to do the things I used to do with her. At times, I felt like lying in the bed every day, all day—and, at times, I did. She did not mind; that gave her a chance to watch her favorite movie at that time, The Lion King. I would watch to a certain point and then doze off. She would wake me up right at the point when the hyenas came out because she was scared. That was her time to jump on me, so I could hold her—and I did just that, even though it hurt from having surgery. I could not stop myself from holding my baby. No matter what, she was my baby and I was Mommy. When she wanted Mommy, that’s the only person she wants. Not that I did not have any help with her, because I did. I had my mom, her dad, family, and friends. So when I could not step up to the plate, someone was there. 

No matter how much I changed, she did not care. She loves me unconditionally and I felt the same. When my hair came out and I thought she would be scared, she was the first one to rub my bald head. It did not matter if I had hair on not, if I got up in the morning to fix her breakfast or not. She did not care; she did not treat my like a cancer patient; she did not treat me like I was sick, even though she knew I was not the same. She was my strength. Without God and my precious gift, I don’t know how I would have survived. Nothing really mattered to her; I was still Mommy. She was and is my reason for living and for fighting.