It's Not All About You!

"It's not all about you, Mom!" my daughter said to me as I sat on the sofa, bone-weary after three months of chemotherapy.

I was shocked.

No, I thought. All of this has been about you. How do you not know that?

When my daughter was young—maybe five or six—we lived in a very small town in the Midwest. It was a farming community. The only work to be found was in a nursing home, so I worked there as a Nurse's Aide. I saw firsthand how chemo ravages the body and destroys the brain. I saw how it takes away a person’s will to live, even while it’s meant to prolong life. I made it clear to my family then—and throughout the years that followed—that I would never go through chemotherapy.

Many years later, we had moved to Texas, to the outskirts of Houston. Life was good. I had a solid career, had recently married, and we’d bought a home. My daughter was grown, married, and raising two boys. Things were going well.

Until they weren’t.

I found a lump.

I've always been a direct person. I want to know. So I went to my doctor, had a scan done, got a copy of it on disc, and came home. I taught myself how to read it online. I knew before my doctor ever called: I had cancer. I knew where it was and approximately how big.

But here’s the thing—when he did call, I was at my daughter’s house. She overheard me.

She immediately collapsed to the floor, sobbing, like a puddle of Jello.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t not go through chemo and just die—leave her in that state.

I had to try to live.

For her.

So I did. And let me tell you, it is torture. Every second of chemotherapy is torture. I was allergic to the first chemical cocktail, but they just pumped me full of Benadryl before each session and kept going. The second cocktail, after two months of the first, was better—almost a relief. But the exhaustion was relentless.

Chemo is poison.

Yes, it’s aimed at cancer cells, but it hits every cell in the body.

This poison, this torture—every second of it—was for her.

Not one moment was for me.

She would come over and ask how I was, then quickly fill the silence by telling me about herself, her husband, and the boys. I could see her frustration sometimes—she felt like she had to do all the work to keep the conversation alive. But I was drained. I didn’t have the strength to carry my half. My silence wasn’t disinterest. It was sheer depletion.

So when she snapped, “It’s not all about you, Mom!” … it wasn’t cruelty. It was her own weariness spilling out.

No. It’s not.

It’s all about you.

It’s always been all about you.

But why did she think I was being selfish?

What was I doing—or not doing—that made her feel that way?

That question…

That was the beginning of my journey to self-discovery.