A daughter’s reflection on cancer by Danielle Banks

My mother received the stage 2b breast cancer diagnosis in September 2022 - after a decade of enduring annual mammograms. I found myself considering morbid possibilities – once worlds away – that were suddenly in the here and now. 

Scenes of my childhood flickered before my eyes - a highlight reel of a life I feared was now gone forever. I saw myself laying next to my sister in front of the fireplace, two moths drawn close by the warmth of the flame. I envisioned the colors my mom had painted the walls of our childhood home: clay and moss and suede, earth tones that reflected the warmth of our existence. My mother’s touch is that squiggly spot in the atmosphere where heat rises, distorting the appearance of the air. A burst of warmth that defies the frigidity surrounding it. 

In hindsight, it was a sense of longing that transported me back to my childhood in the face of cancer. A desperation to go back to where we were safe, where we were all together in what, to a child, felt like permanence. The idea that these moments were over - that we simply no longer were the family who lay sprawled out in front of the fireplace, or sat philosophizing on the front porch, or spat venom at each other in kitchen table disputes, was heartbreaking. Instead, we were now the family that had to survive a breast cancer diagnosis – or not. 

But the details of my mom’s diagnosis created more than just hurt feelings. As my mother writes about, the density of her breast tissue made it difficult for the cancer to be detectable via mammogram – a stealthy opponent made more successful by negligent doctors. While the doctors knew dense breast tissue needs to be screened via MRI to be visible, they failed to provide the proper imaging. Once again, the skies above my world darkened – a cascading cloud rolling in over the sun I had always known. If doctors cannot be trusted to save our loved ones from potentially preventable cancer, I wondered, then are we doomed? Yet again, I felt the world that I once felt safe in begin to unravel. 

Still, I was inspired by the graceful strength my mom embodied as she battled the disease. Not only did she beat the cancer with a new zeal for life, it was the decades of good life that she lived prior to the diagnosis that gave her the strength. It was the decades she’d spent exercising, eating well and staying grounded in prayer that gave her the strength to continue her lakefront walks throughout chemo, sheets of aquamarine rolling out before her as she walked her way back to herself. My mother was determined not to lose herself, even amidst a sea of change. And if she was still herself, I realized, then maybe we were still the family in the house with the earth-toned walls.

Maybe there really was life after cancer.