Darlene: UNCENSORED

Buckle up. It won't be pretty.

Yesterday I threw my mother's wheelie walker out the front door. It was to prove a point and yes, I did bring it back in.

Dave and I planned to go out for a Mother's day meal on Sunday but I just wasn't up to it, so we postponed for Monday thinking the crowds would be thinner. With my stamina in such short supply, I can't stand in lines or wait for a table. And yesterday I got up, bathed, got my clothes ready and sat down on the bathroom floor to put my make up on. Since I avoid mirrors, I was a little shocked to see my reflection. There's been quite a change in the last couple of weeks. I have four eyebrow hairs on one eye, six on the other. I can no longer connect the dots" to give myself drawn-on ones.

I tried. And then I cried.

Though I didn't count them, I think my eyelashes number about the same. There's just not enough of me to restore my face to any reasonable, recognizable form. So I just laid on the bathroom floor and cried .. which is how Dave found me.

He scooped me up and told me that I didn't have to go anywhere I didn't want to. That if I chose to only go to MDA and back for the next six weeks that was perfectly fine. He gave me permission to hide out .. he understands how devastating this loss of identity is.

So I washed my face and switched out my clothes for pajamas. I came into the kitchen where my mother was to explain that we weren't going out. She immediately launched into a tough love sermon, talking to me like I was a five year old with the IQ of a walnut. Excuse me if I didn't respond positively to that. I told her to "go bite yourself". Yes, I think that might be a combo of "go ___ yourself" and "bite me" but it's the best I could come up with in my depleted state. I removed myself from her presence.

Or so I thought. Here came that damn wheelie walker which parked itself and its driver beside me on the sofa (blocking my view of the TV, I might add.) Her tirade continued with "I didn't raise you to be vain. You get up off that sofa and go fix your face .. blah, blah, blah." I told her she didn't know what she was talking about and eventually she left.

For about ten minutes.

Then she was back, in the recliner, sitting across the room from me, trying to make nice with idle chit chat. I looked her square in the eye and told her that she couldn't talk to me the way she just had and then expect to make nice. That she owed me an apology .. and she disagreed. I won't bore you with the complete dialogue. Suffice it to say that my dear Maggie girl (who can't stand raised voices or conflict) left the room. Dave hid behind his laptop.

The whole exchange aired more than a few of my pent up resentments. My mother, at almost 86, is the last of her siblings and the matriarch of our family. She is much loved. But only Jim and I know what it's like to have her for a mother and it ain't easy.

In my defense, I pointed out that I have been taking chemo since January 5th. That I am tired and sick and sick of being tired. That I am dreading my third FAC, knowing that it's like facing a firing squad of blind men wearing mittens. They won't kill me -- they will just make me wish I was dead.

That even after all the toxins injected into my body in the last five months, I am still cooking meals and doing the laundry and pushing myself when I don't feel good. That I have tried to remain positive for most of this crap and that I have tried to be cheerful for my children. That I have put on my face and my cap and gone out to be in public, ignoring the stares and pretending that I am okay with being bald and painted. That I have tried with all my heart to be graceful, but that I am out of grace. That I can't fake it any more.

That the next six weeks will likely be the worst six weeks and that I am just going to do my best to endure it. Here. At home. On the sofa. And that she has no right to judge or criticize me or shame me.

It was bad. For most of my life I have accepted her opinions, her will, her dominion over me. Those days are long gone. And she doesn't quite know what to do with me. There is a reason 54 year old women don't live with their mothers.

I'm not proud of what happened but I feel justified in everything I said to her. My delivery might have been a little harsh but lack of sleep and five months of debiliating fatigue will make you cranky. At some point mothers need to recognize that the relationship with your children should change from one of disciplinarian to one of friendship and companionship. That, as a grandmother myself, I don't need her permission to do anything.

She finally asked me what she should have said to me instead of what she did say. I told her that, right now, her understanding of my experience would be a whole lot more loving that her condemnation. That, without having walked in my shoes, she has no right to judge me.

I'm not trying to garner sympathy. I've shared this whole experience for two reasons only. That in writing about having breast cancer, I am better able to accept this as my new reality and so that I could, perhaps, provide information for others facing this as their new reality.

Cancer doesn't affect just the patient. It affects the family. And the family needs to understand that the loss of eyebrows and eyelashes is just symbolic of the loss of so much more.

Yes, it's temporary.

Yes, it means the medicine is working.

But, day to day, the battle is a long and uphill struggle. The last thing anyone needs is to be reprimanded. Understanding and acceptance might be a more loving choice given the opportunity.