- When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, I moved my parents in to help with treatment.
- My mom still criticized the way I parented my daughter.
- My daughter absorbed all the criticism.
On a morning in late winter, not too cold because this was Florida, but noticeably chilly, my daughter did not have a jacket. We left the house in a hurry, and I forgot to remind her. I forgot to even think about her.
Instead, I was thinking about my father, who left crumbs near the toaster, and my sister, who was dismissive, saying, “Let us know how it goes.” I was thinking about my mother, dreading a day spent at Moffitt Cancer Center, stuck with IV drips and angry about slow elevators.
I had moved my parents in with me to help with my mom’s cancer treatment, but it wasn’t going as I expected.
I had little head space for my kid
Tension traveled from my jaw to my ears, right up my skull, and into my head. It vibrated inside my brain while a teacher explained my daughter’s growing deficiency in second-grade math. We stood in the middle of the hallway, other teachers listening from their doorways, while she urgently asked me: “What are we going to do? Because she is going to fail!”
This particular day was shaping up to be awful, and I nodded at my child’s teacher. I tried to convey that I understood the importance of math and would do better.
Amelia stood between us, wearing her plaid blue skirt and red polo. These were the days of her pixie haircut, and her bangs were hanging into her eyes. Another thing was forgotten in the drama of my parents moving in with us. Another casualty of this distraction. Haircuts. I had to keep up with the haircuts.
She looked devastated at her teacher’s criticism, and I had no opportunity to comfort or defend her. I could not promise we would practice memorizing fact families or work on value circles. I had to rush. I had to meet the two impatient people sitting in the car outside, waiting to get to chemotherapy. Those two people had never been patient.
For those two, every moment was the only moment, and all the moments — all my moments, belonged to them.
My mom was constantly criticism me
I was distracted because we could not be late. We could not even be on time. We had to be early and stay ahead of the cancer cells growing in each ticking second. I was parenting my child in front of my own parents, and it was not going well.
But not because of the math.
Because of my mother’s constant criticism. People do not change just because they are dying.
Because of my father’s pain. I saw him trying to save my mother, believing she needed to eat more.
Because we were not going to have that come-to-Jesus moment, my mother and me. I thought when they moved into my house, which was just minutes from the best cancer center on the East Coast, we would use the time to heal. To love each other. To find the moment where we forgave and understood and moved on.
We would not have that moment, and my daughter would absorb the tension swirling through the house in her little body like I did when I was her age, trying not to upset my parents.
I’m not sure I said goodbye to Amelia after that morning’s math discussion. Instead, I walked swiftly until I was on the street, moving toward the light blue Hyundai with out-of-state plates.
Two heads turned toward me as if choreographed. My father’s expression was worried. His glasses were oversize and cloudy, and his scowl was permanent. My mother was barely visible, wearing the too-big wig and adjusting the oxygen tubes in her nostrils.
As I approached, I gave them a quick wave and a nervous grin, silently acknowledging I was about three minutes and 40 seconds behind schedule. I was determined not to tell them my daughter’s math skills were imperfect.
