LIAA KUMAR lost her mother to cancer when she was a teenager. Now she’s helping others by volunteering at Kesem, an organization that helps children of cancer patients to develop resilience, confidence, and lasting feelings of joy and hope. Her story of grief and hope will touch your heart.
Life stopped being normal two weeks before my eighth grade graduation, when my mom was diagnosed with cervical cancer. At 13, I didn’t know much about cancer, and I didn’t know how to understand the heaviness with which the adults around me whispered, “Stage four.” My mother began chemo that summer and decided to undergo treatment overseas, in India, with the support of family. I went with her.
As a kid, you take the idea of having a parent for granted. It’s a given that your parents will stick around, that they’ll always be strong, always be ready to take care of you. And even as I began to understand the gravity of my mom’s diagnosis, I believed more than anything that this was temporary. I knew my mom, she was indescribably strong, she was my rock, so of course she would be okay. She would be okay because I needed her to be okay. That’s what moms do. They look out for their kids. Always.
That summer I spent a lot of time in small cold rooms, trying to understand the ways in which my mom was changing. No one warns you about how much cancer takes from the people you love. Her body withered, and chemo left dark streaks on her skin that ran up and down her arms and legs. She felt nauseous most of the time, and making sure she was eating enough became an everyday worry.
I supported her body as we inched our way up and down the handful of stairs outside the hospital. Sitting across the floor from your mom, a row of orange pill bottles lined up between you, begging and bargaining for every pill or protein supplement that had to be taken, turns your world upside down.
My mother and I became closer. In between the stress and sadness we watched movies, played card games, practiced tying her head scarf in different ways around her newly bald head, and talked. We did a lot of talking. Mostly we talked about what we’d like to do once this whole nightmare was over. Fly to Europe, visit a monastery in the Himalayas, finally go to the beach again. It was difficult to say goodbye at the end of the summer. It was difficult to leave her behind and face the idea of beginning high school without my mom, but even as I said goodbye, I knew it would only be a matter of time before she came back and everything would be normal again.
Without my mom at home, I had to learn a lot of things on the fly. Suddenly, there was no one at home to wake me up in the morning, remind me to clean my room, do my laundry, or make my lunch. I learned how to grocery shop and the basics of housekeeping, and I missed my mom very much. The responsible parts of growing up aren’t much fun, especially when they’re all crammed into the span of a few months, and especially when it feels like the people around you don’t really understand what you’re going through.
The responsible parts of growing up aren’t much fun,
especially when they’re all crammed into the span of a few months,
and especially when it feels like the people around you
don’t really understand what you’re going through.
I spoke to my mom a few times a week, on the rare occasions she wasn’t in chemo or exhausted from chemo. I felt like she was slipping away even through the phone, and I’d hold it closer to my ear as if that’d bring her back. The good news that kept me going was that she was doing better. A miraculous feat for someone who had been diagnosed so late. I knew it was temporary, she was going to get better, and she was getting better. Until she wasn’t.
My mom passed away near the end of my freshman year, and it felt like an unsatisfactory end to a draining emotional affair. Grief is its own monster, but so is the entire process of losing a loved one to cancer. Most kids don’t spend their adolescence worrying about hospital bills, doctors’ appointments, or a parent’s white blood cell count. It can be a very isolating experience.
Most people can understand loss, but not everyone understands what cancer feels like. So, at Kesem we remind the kids that they still deserve to be kids. We remind them they’re not in this alone.
At Kesem we remind the kids that
they still deserve to be kids.
We remind them they’re not in this alone.
I am so incredibly grateful that I’ve found this organization and these people, that I have the opportunity to help these strong, wonderful, amazing kids. And I am so incredibly excited that you may decide to join us. We’re gonna do great things this year! I can’t wait.
Liaa Kumar
