No one has taught me more about optimism in the face of adversity than my mother. When she was only 35 years old, she was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer. She told her doctor that she would not lose the battle—that she had three little girls to raise—and she fought for 13 years to make that happen.
We were just 8, 6, and 3 years old when she was first diagnosed, and we were confused and frightened by what was happening to our mother. After many months of chemotherapy, she spent almost three months in the hospital recovering from a bone marrow transplant. Before her operation, she recorded our favorite storybooks on cassette tapes so we could listen to her voice reading to us each night. I have a vivid memory of snuggling up next to her and my sisters, watching as she fiddled with my dad’s dictophone and listening as she read my favorite storybook, “The Magic Pot” by Patricia Coombs, in her energetic voice. I listened to that tape almost every evening while she was in the hospital, and hearing her voice in the quiet of my bedroom brought me peace.
Throughout her long treatment and recovery, we occasionally got to visit her in the hospital if she was healthy enough. During one of my visits, I climbed into her bed and told her that I wished she could see me in my Halloween costume. I didn’t understand then why tears streamed down her face as she told me that there was nothing in the world she would like more. She didn’t get to go trick-or-treating with us that year, but we visit her in the hospital wearing our costumes.
She came home on Thanksgiving Day. My sisters and I dressed up as Indians and pilgrims and stood on the porch awaiting her arrival. I still remember the way that my heart pounded in excitement as the brown station wagon pulled up to our house and my frail mother emerged, clinging to my dad’s arm, smiling and crying. Truly, it was the most joyous Thanksgiving our family has ever had.
She had lost her energy and her hair, but she had not lost her spirit and her sense of humor. On Christmas morning that year, she posed for a photo with my new Mrs. Potato Head doll, just to make her little girls laugh. When I look at that photo of my mother, her face swollen from steroid treatments and her head bald from chemotherapy, I see true beauty.
Over the subsequent years, she went in and out of remission many times, but through it all she kept her love of life and her determination to raise her daughters. Her optimism blessed us with so many beautiful memories.
Planning fun for her family was an “escape” from her illness, and she loved to plan creative birthday parties, such as the Westover family Olympics!
She loved cozy moments with her daughters, like this one on Christmas morning.
Always a good sport, she joined in her teenaged daughters’ antics, such as posing in our fancy hotel bathrobes when we were on vacation as a family.
On the morning of July 14, 2003, I climbed into my mother’s bed, just like I did when I was a little girl. I was 19–my sisters were 21 and 16–and five months earlier, we had received the news that our mother’s cancer had reached her brain, and we didn’t have much time left with her. That morning, I wrapped my arms around her and told her I loved her and was so grateful for the life she had given me. With tears in her eyes, she said to me, “All I ever wanted was love in our home—and I got it. I got everything I ever wanted.” She passed away just a few hours later.
I honor and thank her for everything she gave me, particularly her example of enduring even the most difficult of life’s trials with optimism. I’m sure there were many days when she cried bitter tears of sorrow, pain, and anger; I’m sure there were times when she lost her temper with us due to exhaustion and physical pain; but through it all, she was somehow able to face each day with faith, joy, and, above all, a deep love for her family.
I think of my mother every day, particularly when I am going through a difficult struggle. Before she passed away, she made a baby blanket for each of her daughters so when our own babies arrived, we would be able to wrap them up in their grandmother’s love.
My journey to motherhood was long and difficult, with years of infertility treatments and adoption opportunities that fell through, and I often longed for my mother’s advice and comfort. But I tried to face those challenges with the optimism and resilience that she had always modeled for me. When my son finally arrived through the miracle of adoption, I cried tears of joy as I wrapped him in my mother’s blanket and sang him the lullaby that she always sang to me.
Daisy May is honored to name a blouse after Sally to help create and inspire women and mother's everywhere.