Becoming a caregiver changed the way my mum sees me
I'm no longer just her son, and she's not merely my mum
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Recently, I’ve observed a new type of quietness between my mum and me. It is not the usual silence that arises after a myeloma diagnosis, nor are we deliberately distracting ourselves from talking about anything related to cancer. This recent silence is also not born of distance, bad days, or even the challenges of caregiving. Rather, it’s the result of intense, shared attention.
I used to ask myself: When my mum gazes at me, what does she see? Am I just her son, one of her children, a friendly face from a lifetime of school plays, Christmases, and plans we no longer make for exotic vacations?
I now know that she sees me as her caregiver. The proof of this role is etched into me as vividly as the marks of her ailment are etched into her.
My mum sees a practiced calmness in my hands as I prepare her myeloma treatments. This didn’t come from training as a surgeon or a microbiologist. Rather, this steadiness is a caregiving skill I had to learn as I unlearned other things.
My mum also sees the way I gaze at the wall clock. Whenever my eyes dart to that timepiece, she knows I am mentally tracking her next meal, her next appointment, or her next dose of medication. She can also see the new lines of tiredness and fatigue around my eyes and forehead, a reflection of her own.
Seeing each other in a new light
However, I believe that beyond the tasks and repetitive routines, my mum also sees my love, which must now be resilient and pragmatic. It is a love that has been forced to grow up. She still sees her child, who has learned how to be strong — not because I wanted to be, but because my mum needed me to be strong for her.
Other times, I can detect in her gaze a silent, sorrowful apology. I notice the same type of apology when she slightly squeezes my hand after I have lifted her. It’s as if she is telling me, “My son, I am so sorry for all this trouble, all this unspoken burden.”
Sometimes, I notice that her gaze holds a wordless but fierce pride. I see it in the way she lifts her chin, nods, and watches as I explain her myeloma symptoms to a new nurse.
These days, I wonder if I am the only one who’s noticed that my mum’s perspective has changed. This altered vision has become our new language, as we study how to read each other in this changed light. Before now, I was just her son. Now, I am more than that. I am her advocate, her guardian, her comforter, and her familiar ground in a world that keeps shifting. And she is no longer merely my mum. Although I sometimes hide my status as a caregiver, my mum is the reason I discovered a strength I never knew I possessed.
What my mum sees these days is an evolution. And in her eyes, I am also learning to recognize this transformation.
Note: Rare Cancer News is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Rare Cancer News or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to rare cancer.
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