Motherhood and Cancer: A Survivor’s Story

Motherhood and Cancer: A Survivor’s Story

A survivor’s story about loss, love and the importance of meaningful relationships during times of great adversity.

Me and my Phoenix.

Everyone has a story. Sometimes we share our stories to help others feel less alone, and sometimes we share our stories to feel less alone in our own journey. My name is Lea Valente. I am a mother to a sweet little boy, a wife to wonderful man, a model, and a loyal friend living a full life in Montreal Canada.

I am also a survivor: a woman who understands what it feels like when motherhood and cancer collide. Here is my story.

Dark Shadows

I am no stranger to death. Dark shadows seem to have always been at my heels. My childhood was one of laughter and love due largely to my mother. She was my best friend and my mentor. We were inseparable, and she was my greatest confidante. Patience and wisdom were her greatest attributes, and she always knew what to say to make things better: a beaming ray of sunlight streaming through thick grey clouds. She cared so much about everything I did, everything I felt and everything I said. Nothing was more comforting then just knowing she was there and, that she would always be there. Cancer had other plans. My mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in September of 2003, and the prognosis was grim.

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I love this photo of my mother and me. She was the heart and soul of our home, and here we are sitting at her doorstep. This photo was taken when my mother was healthy. It personifies my childhood: a childhood full of love, happiness and affection.

Seeing her slip away over two years was heartbreaking.  Her pain, hair loss and diminishing vitality and energy was excruciating to witness. I was finishing university at the time and despite the logistical difficulties of caring for her while completing my degree, taking care of my mother was a task I could not have imagined not doing to the fullest. When you love someone that much, caring comes naturally and gives you some sense of power in seemingly powerless situations.

I was 26 years old when my mother took her last breath.

When she passed away a piece of my heart was taken from me, and my soul was deeply hollowed; a mother with cancer that was taken too soon. As she fought for her life, there were many times I wondered how she must have felt.

On September 28^th, 2013, I no longer had to wonder. I was diagnosed with stage two A Nodular Sclerosing Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

And now, I too was a mother with cancer.

Phoenix

Two years before my diagnosis, I found out I was pregnant. Growing in my belly was a beautiful baby boy, and it was without doubt the best and happiest news I had received in a very long time.

I was 38 weeks pregnant in this photo and feeling fantastic! I was so excited to meet my little Phoenix and the mother in me.

As I struggled to find the right name for him, I came across the name Phoenix. The story of the phoenix stems from Greek mythology and refers to a long-lived bird that obtains new life by “arising from the ashes of its predecessors.”

On November 30^th, 2011, after much anticipation, my little Phoenix arrived. It was a moment in time that left me feeling in awe and immensely fulfilled.

Days were filled with breastfeeding and playing. Nights were filled with much of the same and not coincidentally a complete absence of sleep. Before I knew it, he was entering the toddler years, and I was enrolling him in a Montessori school. I began modeling again and renovating our family home, and life seemed busily perfect.

And then, without warning, the all too familiar dark shadows reappeared.

We were on our way to see some friends in Toronto when my husband noticed a bump on the left side of my collarbone. My heart stopped. I immediately contacted my mother’s oncologist who told me he would see me as soon as I got back.

Biopsies and PET scans began to infiltrate my daily schedule. I couldn’t sleep and was consumed by anxiety and stress. The mass in my collarbone had spread to my neck and was growing by the hour. Lying on my stomach was impossible, because the lump in my neck was so large. Waiting for the results was sheer torture, and I remember staying up at night wondering if this was the end; consumed with the idea that my son may be raised without me. My Phoenix…motherless. After countless tests, the words I never wanted to hear shot me, “It looks like Lymphoma.”

I couldn’t believe that just shy of the 10year anniversary of my own mother’s passing, I was suddenly back in that dark place.

Motherhood and Cancer

Phoenix was only 18 months when I received my diagnosis, and in some ways I am relieved that he was young enough not to fully comprehend the monster his mommy would have to battle.

Early on, one of my favorite activities while in treatment was going pumpkin picking: the cool fall air, the fire-toned leaves, and my son’s perfect smile. I still had my hair, which seemed to represent health despite my prognosis. These moments with my son were priceless. Phoenix was still attached to me, and I just felt normal.

This is a photo from our visit to the pumpkin patch. I had done one round of chemo and I had a “chemo glow”–a tanned like appearance from one of the drugs in my cocktail.

As the treatments progressed, the disease became more physically apparent. My son did have a small reaction when I shaved my head but not the one I was expecting. My long mane had always been a focal feature prior to my diagnosis, and I was concerned with how he might view me. He just stared at me for 5 minutes and then touched his own hair…and that was that. Sweet innocence.

Phoenix is 2 years old in this picture. We were on our way to the Sugar Shack, known affectionately in Quebec as the “Cabane à Sucre”.  I really wanted to enjoy my time, however, I had just finished chemo and the uncertainty of my future was weighing heavily on me.

As my chemo treatments became part of my regular existence, with one even scheduled on Christmas Day, distance became one of the most challenging side effects. I could not be with my son the way I wanted too. I just didn’t have the physical strength to play like we did before. In fact, any energy to play, dance and sing was gone. I couldn’t show him as much affection, because I had developed Neutropenia: a low white blood cell count that makes one highly vulnerable to infection. In addition to the high risk of infection, the pain was searing. It often felt as though my lower back was breaking like a frail twig caught in winter’s wind.

I don’t know if my son internalized this distance, but a part of me feels like he had a sense. Our family dynamics changed as my condition worsened. My husband’s responsibilities grew, and his time with Phoenix increased as my time diminished. What I didn’t anticipate was the alienation I would feel. It was difficult, because my son slowly began wanting his daddy more and more. It hurt me deeply. Not only was I sick, but also I felt like I was losing my bond with my son.

It was in quiet moments of reflection that I now know that despite the physical separation, painful feelings of alienation and seeming loss of a “loving relationship,” the deep current of love between mother and child remained all along and ultimately sustained me from afar.

Here are my husband and I celebrating Phoenix’s 2nd birthday. I couldn’t believe I was actually able to plan his party and attend amongst all the chaos of treatments and my pain. Luckily family and friends stepped in to help. I could not have done it without them.

The Kindness of Others

The kindness and support of others also had a huge impact on my mental state as I fought for my physical well-being.

Losing my hair was harder than I had anticipated. I mentally prepared myself, but it’s just impossible to be fully prepared. When it starts happening it’s heartbreaking. You don’t just feel like a cancer patient, but now you look like one too: your secret is written for the world to see.

April 2014-I had lost my hair, eyebrows and eyelashes again. We had taken glamorized photos of me, but I also wanted one natural, with no make-up, touch-ups or filters. This is just a raw picture of me but also the true face of a cancer patient.

During this difficult time, my “solution” and attempt to regain power was to assert some control over the situation with the help of family and friends. My brother and his girlfriend graciously shaved their hair with me, and we took beautiful pictures and embraced the change. Oddly enough –particularly given the situation- it was happiness personified.

On another occasion, a family friend of mine came in to give me a surprise manicure; it was a simple and sweet gesture that made me feel loved and beautiful despite my changing physical appearance. To my delight, she continued to give me manicures and pedicures during my subsequent treatments wrapping me in warm blankets as chemo took hold.  Her name, Tara Boudreau, became synonymous with comfort.

Another of my mom’s good friends, Rachel Lachapelle, stepped in and began taking Phoenix to school at 6am on the days I had chemo.  It was a godsend to have this kind of support.  She also made me chicken soup and reminded me on my lowest days that she was there in any way I might need her.  She was my guardian angel.  In some mystifying way, I feel like my mom worked through her to take care of me.

My husband, Robby, was by my side for every appointment and every treatment: a constant in a sea of uncertainty. My doctor even referred to us as “the team”. Kindness also infused the way my doctor treated me. There is so much fear after a cancer diagnosis, and your doctor becomes a lifeline. Doctors have a professional duty to respond to your physical needs, but my doctor’s bedside manner addressed my emotional needs as well. Hundreds of questions were asked of her to which hundreds of answers were empathetically given.

Cancer may be strong, but so too are the relationships that nurture us in our darkest hours. These kind gestures from my husband, doctor, friend, and family reiterated the importance of meaningful relationships. Each individual act of kindness served as a life vest in a raging current that almost brought me under.

Here I am with my siblings, Lenny and Chriselda. They had just finished shaving their heads in solidarity. It was such a brave and kind thing to do, and this act of kindness made me feel less alone.

Throughout my journey, I couldn’t stop thinking of my mother especially the fear she must have experienced at the knowledge she would be leaving behind a motherless child. When I was losing my hair, I was reminded of my own mother’s hair loss and how she must have felt being so exposed to the outside world. Her pain, confusion and feelings of fear were now no longer shrouded in mystery.

And yet, what I also understood in a meaningful way was the important role kindness must have played in my mother’s last days. Perhaps one of the most poignant acts of kindness toward my mother came from the very woman who surprised me with the manicure. You see the same family friend who massaged my hands and painted my nails also massaged the hands of my dying mother. After manicure sessions, my mom would beam with happiness and hold up her hands. My mother always appreciated the little things even more so when she was sick. Our family friend made her feel beautiful. A master artist paining pretty colors on canvases marred by cancer. Time may pass; but the kindness of others is timeless.

When I shivered with pain, it was the blanket of kindness that warmed me. And – after seeing old pictures of my mother during her darkest hours- I presume it was the blanket of kindness that warmed her too.

This was my last Christmas with my mommy, December 25th, 2005. She was very sick, and it was heartbreaking to see the heart and soul of our household, the one who had always made the holidays so special, not well enough to participate. We showered her with love and kindness to try capture the holiday spirit.

The Light

Eight long months after hearing the most terrifying words of my life, I heard the most beautiful ones: “Complete Metabolic Response,” or, in laymen terms, cancer free.

I walked out of the hospital in blissful daze. The sun was shining brighter and looked more beautiful then ever before. I felt like I was walking on a cloud; for those who have survived cancer a cliché whose original meaning will always be understood. There were so many people to see and so many things to do. Summer arrived, and although I was not allowed in the sun, I enjoyed every moment of every day. I could taste food again and be around people, both of which were lovely substitutes to sunshine.

Spending quality time with my son without feeling sick was the best part of all. I couldn’t get enough hugs and kisses. The physical distance I had to cultivate during treatment was gone, and our closeness bloomed.

This photo was taken not long after I found out I was in remission. It was the beginning of summer and such a happy time. The smiles say it all.

From One Warrior Mommy to Another

To any mom who’s been recently diagnosed, my advice would be to do what feels right and be patient with yourself: everybody handles stress and disease differently. I would also encourage mothers battling cancer to try, when possible, to nurture special moments with your loved ones; including yourself. Be present in a moment that’s good.

When it’s not possible, I would recommend allowing the kindness of others to lift and sustain you. Beautiful relationships are one of the greatest tools we have in the fight against cancer: both as survivors and as individuals dealing with loss. I know that as both a mother and daughter.

Reflections

Surprisingly, cancer has made me a better mother and individual in so many ways. I see things clearly now. I appreciate all the little things and my love of life is even stronger. There were times during my treatment, I couldn’t pick my son up to give him kisses. Now every time I do, it’s a gift. Making dinner for my family without feeling nauseas has become the highlight of my day. Styling my hair in the mornings makes me smile. Mundane activities are now somehow magical. I’m just so happy and grateful to be alive. So many don’t make it out alive, and I’ve been given a second chance. It’s a fact that infuses my daily life.

The relationship with my husband has evolved as well. Cancer can cause stresses beyond compare: financial strain, caregiving challenges, and terror that can make a person feel like they’re losing their mind. A lot of couples don’t make it through traumatic situations for good reason. Robby and I were not immune to these stresses, but we got through it together. We didn’t let go. I can say we are stronger than ever before, and I am so thankful for that.

In addition, my sense of community has matured. With the help of my husband, I’ve started photographing women who are battling cancer. It’s a very special experience, because they feel so vulnerable in front of the camera and put complete trust in me. As the session unfolds, the women begin to bloom, and the images ultimately reveal the power and beauty of these warriors. They’ve all told me that the experience is such a confidence booster. I remember it was for me, and I feel such a profound joy that I can provide a similar experience for them.

My husband Robby captured these images of me during my cancer treatment. He took these beautiful photos of me two weeks after I shaved my head for the first time. I wanted to feel some sort of control over my physical experience even though it was changing rapidly. Allowing myself to be photographed in such a vulnerable state  made me ultimately feel empowered and beautiful.

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While I battled cancer my greatest source of strength was my son and the desire to be there to watch him grow up. I also felt a certain strength from my mother: she modeled how to be a warrior. While I may not be a stranger to death, I am a true friend to life. And as I continue to travel the peaks and valleys of my own life, I am committed to cherishing the relationships with those I love and most of all nurturing the loving relationship I have with myself.

My mother gave birth to me, and consequently a part of her lives on in me. I gave birth to Phoenix, and he is a part of me, and I am a part of him. We all belong to each other really. When I reflect on my journey, I am reminded of the story that inspired my son’s name.

The dark shadows are now disappearing in the glow of the sun, and I rise from the ashes just like a phoenix.

I love you Phoenix. I love you Mommy. May we hold on to the good times and to each other forever.

Lea is a mother, model and philanthropist. She lives in Montreal, Canada with her son Phoenix and her husband Robby.

Story and Author: Lea Valente

Co-Author/Editor: Glyncora Murphy

Contributors: Amber Chow and Danielle Shapiro

If you would like to donate to an organization that is committed to raising funds for cancer research and is very dear to Lea Valente, please visit: www.jghfoundation.org