Mother displays heroism in her breast cancer battle
Brady C. Mallory
Issue date: 10/7/09 Section: Opinion & Editorial
Growing up, I never admired the same figures other little boys declared as their heroes. Baseball players, football stars and Superman did not impress me as much as the one who embodied what I thought of as heroism. As a 22-year-old man, my hero is still very much my mother. This summer, I met a stranger who reaffirmed why I hold this to be true.
The second day of my internship led me to the glass-paned oak door of a woman in her mid-thirties. She was warm, inviting, beautiful and had a light about her not many are able to boast about. Watching this spry, cheerful woman who was dressed in a bright blue blouse, black capris and high heels, it was easy to forget she had just been diagnosed with stage four breast cancer for the second time. Surrounded by rows and rows of photographs that captured family events of yesterday, picture days for her two young daughters or warm embraces from dear friends, this woman told me and a news camera her story. Her story was my story.
She had just had chemotherapy the day before and had mentioned she woke up and noticed her raven-black hair had already begun collecting on her pillow. She showed us her scrapbooking room, her husband's "man cave" and various school projects from her daughters. Not once did she say her condition was an injustice. Instead, and gracefully so, she said, "You can choose to stay in bed every day, or you can choose to get out of bed and fight. I choose to fight."
In October, Breast Cancer Awareness Month, we remember women like Becky because she is a cancer patient. To her children, she is Mom. Gloria Mallory was a cancer patient who survived breast cancer nine years ago. She is my mom. Becky was 30 when she was first diagnosed. My mom was 54. Becky has short black hair. My mom has long blonde hair. The point is: cancer knows no age, no height, no weight, no hair color, no race, no economic status. I never thought my mom would have breast cancer, and now, nine years later, I wake up every morning with the fear it could come back.
The second day of my internship led me to the glass-paned oak door of a woman in her mid-thirties. She was warm, inviting, beautiful and had a light about her not many are able to boast about. Watching this spry, cheerful woman who was dressed in a bright blue blouse, black capris and high heels, it was easy to forget she had just been diagnosed with stage four breast cancer for the second time. Surrounded by rows and rows of photographs that captured family events of yesterday, picture days for her two young daughters or warm embraces from dear friends, this woman told me and a news camera her story. Her story was my story.
She had just had chemotherapy the day before and had mentioned she woke up and noticed her raven-black hair had already begun collecting on her pillow. She showed us her scrapbooking room, her husband's "man cave" and various school projects from her daughters. Not once did she say her condition was an injustice. Instead, and gracefully so, she said, "You can choose to stay in bed every day, or you can choose to get out of bed and fight. I choose to fight."
In October, Breast Cancer Awareness Month, we remember women like Becky because she is a cancer patient. To her children, she is Mom. Gloria Mallory was a cancer patient who survived breast cancer nine years ago. She is my mom. Becky was 30 when she was first diagnosed. My mom was 54. Becky has short black hair. My mom has long blonde hair. The point is: cancer knows no age, no height, no weight, no hair color, no race, no economic status. I never thought my mom would have breast cancer, and now, nine years later, I wake up every morning with the fear it could come back.
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