Myeloma has forced me and my mum to rewrite the story of our lives

We carry many stories in our hearts. The story of how our own life should play out. The story of a peaceful retirement. The story of watching a parent meet their grandchildren. The story of taking a vacation that you have long dreamed of and planned for. These are the futures we thought we were promised, the tomorrows we looked forward to.

My mum’s myeloma destroyed not only her health, but also every one of those narratives. The pages of the story we thought we’d be living are now scattered, and I am left confused and angry as I try to decide which ones I’ll allow to be blown away entirely.

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The weight of an unlived life

There’s a particular kind of agony that comes with holding on to “what should have been.” It’s the ghost that will keep haunting you, whether you’re alone in a quiet room or stuck in repetitive routines. It’s the comparison you’ll constantly, unconsciously make. And when you find yourself wishing for those days before you became a caregiver, it’s natural to feel as if you’re failing in the present.

I’ve written about having to unlearn a lot since becoming my mum’s caregiver. However, I now have to learn that when you grieve the future you thought you’d have, it doesn’t mean you’re betraying the present. You are simply taking a necessary step. Broken dreams are not the foundation on which one builds an honest and brand-new life. To build such an ideal life, you must first clear away the rubble.

Finding a new plot

Letting go doesn’t mean giving up; it means creating space. When I let go of my grip on the story of a cure, I discovered the more real and immediate story of comfort. When I refused to keep clinging to the tales of how active and vibrant my mum used to be, I started to see the profound courage in the woman she has become.

Different themes now make up our new story. That story is one of endurance rather than victory. It’s not about a specific destination, but rather the quality of our journey, one difficult, beautiful day at a time.

The freedom in release

Our new narrative is much quieter, but it is ours to feel and experience. It’s built on small truths rather than grand plans. My mum and I don’t define a good day by a good test result, but by the laughter we share, a warm meal we both enjoy, or a moment of peace.

Of course, I miss the old stories. But I’ve learned how to adore the authors my mum and I have become. It’s also why I write this column. I am writing in real time, without a map. Our only guidance is the love we still share as a son and a mother, and the imperfect but raw truth of now.

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