A Long Overdue Confession

Looking back at things I could confess, one thing stands out in the forefront of my mind. This is something I should have told you many many years ago, and I am honestly not sure why I never did.

I was in high school at the time, in Year 10 I believe. Dad had just come out of hospital after having one of his many surgeries or cancer treatments, and then it was your turn to go in.

After watching your mother and sister battle breast cancer, you made the impossibly brave choice to remove both your breasts, despite having several negative biopsies and scans.

You asked Dad not to bring us after your surgery. You asked him to keep us at home. You didn't want us to see you at your absolute lowest point. Doubting who you were as a woman, grieving a part of you now lost forever. But Dad brought us anyway.

I remember the first time I saw you. Without your breasts, you looked inhumanly thin. I don't think I've ever seen you look so tormented, it was a truly chilling sight.

I don't remember what I said. I don't know if I said anything at all. I regret that.

As your surgery happened in Sydney, Dad took us all to stay with his Aunt for a few days at Copacabana - it was a shorter trip than driving all the way back home.

You put on a smile and played the part of a healthy mother of three, despite the drainage tubes you carried around in bags at your sides, the daily nurse visits and constant, what I can only imagine was, indescribable pain.

I played along as the obliging eldest child, quietly checking in throughout the day, then accepting your "I'm ok" and going on my way.

You knew what to do when a partner was recovering from a major surgery, how could you not when you had been handling it since I was six months old? This was the first time for Dad though. I know you resented him bringing us up to visit, but he was only doing the best he knew how.

You see, Dad had been in and out of hospital my whole life with a broken back and cancer, and he spent so much time away from us that he cherished time he had with us, no matter how sick he was. He assumed you would be the same.

Once we were back home, life returned to somewhat normal. We went back to school, and you went back to your motherly and wifely duties - just with my hands to take over whenever you had to reach for or lift something.

Later, you learnt that after removal, a nine centimetre mass of cancer was found in your left breast. Nine centimetres. Nine. After countless biopsies and multiple scans, it was not found until you had your breasts removed. It still amazes and horrifies me that something like that could be missed.

This is where my confession comes in. I confess that I have been keeping secrets from you. I am so proud and grateful you made that terrifying decision. Writing this, I honestly can't believe I've never said that to your face. If you hadn't made that impossible choice, I would have likely lost both my parents to cancer instead of just one. I think about that often.

I will forever admire your bravery, your selflessness, your strength and your hope. I will forever admire you.

So here I am. Saying thank you. Thank you for sacrificing your sense of womanhood to stay with us. Thank you trusting your gut and overcoming the associated fear. Thank you for forgiving Dad so he didn't take your resentment to the grave. Thank you for always being there, even when you wanted to hide away from the world. Thank you for showing me what true bravery is. Just, thank you.