By: Katie CampisanoToday was a perfect day. The air had that distinct crisp fall feeling. The weather was ideal, but there was more to the day than light breezes, minimal humidity (the perfect hair day), and limited cloud coverage.
Today was probably the first day that my mom and I spent fully together.
There have been plenty of times in the last few months that she's been in the kitchen doing bills and me on the couch watching Food Network, or she on the deck reading a magazine and me laying out in the sun. We've been feet away from each other, so many times, but never really together. But today was different; today was special.
My mom is, in all senses of the word, my hero. She isn't a CEO or exec at some firm in Manhattan; she isn't a gourmet chef who experiments with awesome food creations during family dinners. She is, however, a two-time breast cancer survivor. And, not only has she battled her own disease, but she has walked with me, hand-in-hand, in my own struggle with addiction. Those things, alone, rank her above any other woman in my mind.
The childhood I experienced was absolutely the suburban upper-middle class cliché. My younger sister and I grew up in central Jersey, right outside Princeton, raised by our two parents (dad, an attorney; mom, a "homemaker"). My little sister was the dancer and teacher-in-the-making. I was the athlete and somewhat of a wild child. Everything was always normal. We participated in the neighborhood carpools after daily lacrosse practices, we went to SAT tutoring once a week our junior years of high school (sucked, by the way). We went on family vacations every summer to places like Europe, Hawaii, the Dominican Republic, and Maine. Life for us was always solid; we were always good.
But twice, my family received the devastating diagnosis that our anchor, my mom, had breast cancer. To this day, actually typing the word "cancer" makes me shiver. Most of the time, I can't even say the word.
The first time my mom was sick, I was eight years old and my sister five, the second I was 12 and my sister nine. Both times, she lost her hair. Actually, we shaved it. Both times, she wore a wig that we named "Mabel." Both times, she was sicker than I could have ever imagined, throwing up and emaciated. But both times, we had no idea she was even close to as sick as she was. She went through surgery (x2), chemotherapy (x2), radiation (x2--she has the tattoos to prove it; and uses them as a reason to hate mine) and, eventually, had a double mastectomy and reconstructive surgery.
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