By Maureen Malloy

When I awakened in the pre-dawn darkness riddled with the fear of my breast cancer, I finally realized why my oldest son Luke, had insisted on flying to Florida from Washington, DC, for my upcoming bilateral mastectomy surgery. 

He was taking over the protective role we mothers assume are ours alone. Simply put, it is an alien experience to have our child care for us.

Why was I being so resistant? 

Since my diagnosis, I have been trying to spare him and keep him at bay, casually rebuffing his overtures to help me.

“No, wait until I’m better, and we can do something fun!”

I’d traveled to be with my parents for various surgeries throughout the years. Although I was staying positive, was I minimizing my diagnosis to protect myself? Was I protecting him from the harsh reality that I had cancer?

Luke, 28, arrived the day before my surgery in the house I’ve been sharing with my boyfriend Todd since Hurricane Ian destroyed my Gulf Coast home this past September. That night, he helped me prepare for the surgery and recovery. And he never questioned my need for a cheese steak hoagie; he not only knew it was my comfort food but would be my last meal of choice for a while. 

The following day, as my hospital identification bracelet was on my wrist, Luke took charge, ensuring he had all the details about my four-hour surgery and weeks-long recovery. 

Then I was alone in pre-op. Until then, I’d tried to be brave, positive, and focused on gratitude. My cancer was caught early, and the prognosis was good. But at the 11th hour, I was overcome with jitters and terror at the reality of what was happening. Lying there, hooked up to an IV that was not delivering a little something to take me off the edge, I began to shake. I felt I could bounce out of bed. A succession of warm blankets provided a momentary distraction before the uncontrollable shivering geared back up.

Finally, Luke was allowed back into my room, and I immediately calmed down. He has a Master’s Degree from Georgetown. He’s a Fulbright recipient. He’s very funny. And that day found out that he had also mastered the art of distraction. 

“Can I also get surgery,” he joked with the nurse. “Maybe a breast reduction? procedure.”

He asked about the street value of my pain medications, planning to sell them.

“She’ll be fine,” he said matter of factly to the nurse.

My edge was softening. 

Coming to the recovery room, Luke, Todd, and my sisters Taire and Lynne were there. If Luke was funny before the surgery, he was now all business with the surgeon, nurses, and medical staff, asking questions, listening intently, and diligently taking notes about drains, infections, and wound care. 

I returned home that day, my chest wrapped like a mummy; tubes protruded from stitches in my sides, leading to plastic bulbs hanging to my waist. Exhausted and in pain, I remember sipping ginger ale and falling asleep in a recliner.

The next day, Luke was by my side when the surgeon was to inspect my wounds. I did not want Luke to see such a gruesome sight and tried to stop the doctor from removing my bandages in front of my son. But he possessed the caring detachment of a seasoned medical provider as he listened for the next steps in my care. 

The following days remained blurry, but Luke, my caregiver, ensured I had enough pain medication on board before he tended to the drains. He guided me through breaths in and out while he stripped the tubes of fluid, creating a vacuum so fluid could drain into the collection bulbs. 

Stripping tubes is a nasty task for the giver and receiver because it feels like leeches are sucking out your breasts from the inside. It’s hard for a gal to put a good face on that. 

This is the moment it became clear — our mother-son roles had switched, but I smile when I think Luke and I overcame our awkwardness – partly by watching Pamela Anderson’s Netflix documentary together.

“Hey, Luke,” I asked. “What do you and Pamela’s sons have in common?’

He looked at me curiously. 

“You’ve both seen your mom’s boobs.”

It was hard to relinquish control to my child and to be on the receiving end of his help. Luke was a challenging young child, prone to accidents, seizures, and severe respiratory issues. 

Most moms would do anything to spare their children from worrying about their parents. We aren’t supposed to be burdensome; we lighten burdens.

But Luke’s shoulders proved more than ample to carry it with grace and a heart big enough to gently care for his mom like a mom. Or, like the father, I hope he will be one day. 

In the meantime, I hope he feels my love and gratitude for the Mother’s Day card I’m sending him this year. And I sure hope he understands that it is impossible to find a card that says, “To my son on Mother’s Day.”