A Caregiver's Perspective

Annie called from Los Angeles, and I knew immediately by the tone of her voice that something terrible had happened. When I heard her say, “Mom, I have breast cancer,” I wanted to fix it. Her dad and I were in Texas, and I felt the distance so profoundly. Within a few days, I had packed up and was on my way to her with no idea of when I’d return. 

Thanks to the outpouring of love and support from our community, Annie was able to move to a new apartment that was quiet and comfortable — a place for healing. She was living with her boyfriend at the time, so I booked an Airbnb down the street. Cancer was enough of a strain on their relationship, and I didn’t want to add to their stress by being there all the time. 

One of the first things I realized was the importance of autonomy. When you have cancer, you lose so much control. Everyone else seems to know what’s best for you. This was happening to Annie, and I needed to let her make the decisions and support her completely. It was tough at times. It took a month to find the right oncologist, and I worried we were taking too long. I just wanted to get the cancer out. But, Annie’s first two oncologists weren’t good fits. We knew immediately when we found the doctor for her because he gave us what we were looking for: hope and a plan. And though that was a very long month for me, Annie was so wise. She knew what she wanted. With my support, she felt empowered to stand up for herself and get the care she deserved. 

She also made the decision to get a goldendoodle puppy. My first thought was, “She already has two cats. Who does that now?” But I ate my words quickly. That puppy still brings us more smiles and laughter than we imagined. Animals are healing, and Annie knew what she was doing.

Annie’s original diagnosis was Stage II breast cancer. After an overwhelming number of tests, it was upgraded to Stage IV. It was frightening, but I did my best to hold it together during her appointments. It was easier when I was in “mom” mode, focused on cooking and cleaning. But, at the end of the day, I would go back to my Airbnb and let it all out in private. I screamed, and I cried. It’s really hard not to cry when you’re afraid. 

Annie has had many surgeries with drains and dressings for me to change. I bought her a stuffed animal for each surgery because she’s still my little girl. She’s had many drug therapies, with side effects like nausea, neuropathy and fatigue to manage. The fatigue was intense. I encouraged a little exercise to relieve it and lift her spirits. If she didn’t feel like it, I didn’t push. That’s important. Just being there, being present. Some days were spent snuggled up and watching reruns of “The Bachelor.” Other days we spent time in nature or at the beach. And, we used humor as a coping mechanism a lot — anything that distracted or amused us. 

Little acts of love brought her the most comfort — a cup of hot tea, good pillows, a heating pad. When she wanted the perfect scrambled egg, I scrambled it like my life depended on it. Friends sent little gifts, and nothing made her happier than to come home to a bouquet of flowers. Though I didn’t do it for myself (I was still laser-focused on Annie), I encouraged her to join a support group. Annie had so much to give and to gain from others. Now it’s her passion. Her social media presence has grown so much since she was first diagnosed. 

Caregivers often need a thick skin, and that’s understandable because we care for people who don’t feel well and are scared. If Annie and I ever had a cross word, we resolved it immediately. 

Being a caregiver is a gift. They provide things a doctor can’t. They pick you up when you fall. They’re someone you can be real with, someone you can yell at and then it doesn’t matter five minutes later. My experience with Annie has made me a better human. I encourage anyone who can to reach out to a friend or family member in need of care. The world would be a much better place if everyone had a bit of time to take care of someone else.