By Amanda Magnago

I remember Wednesday, August 19th, 2020, like it was yesterday. The day a mere phone call turned my world upside down. You see, I never quite understood the meaning of “don’t take things for granted” until I began to live what it is like to not be guaranteed something, or someone. My mother.

That Wednesday, my mom and I were leaving home to go to a friend’s house. But it was not until we were halfway there that she got the phone call. My mom had parked the car at the edge of the road to pick up the phone and after that, I do not recall what the woman on the other line had spoken other than “you have cancer.” I did not know that three words could cut deeper than knives. Those were the only words I was able to immediately take in, and perhaps the only words 12-year-old me could understand. At that moment, you would expect a million things to be going through my head, but I remember there was only one. Loss. I knew my mom was not dead, she was right next to me, but I had lost my innocence. The part of me that for 12 years of my life believed that my mother would be around for as long as I was.

“My Little Pink” is what I would like to call my story. After my mom’s diagnosis, she was not the only one who began a pink journey of her own while battling breast cancer. Although I did not go through chemotherapy, surgery, constant oncologist visits, I began to experience firsthand a piece of the damage parental cancer can do to teens. In less than a year, I had developed both anxiety and depression. I not only lived in the constant fear and uncertainty of “what would I do without my mother” but also having to accept one way or the other that I would not have her for long. It was a hard pill to swallow so early. Every day I would cry. I woke up crying, I ate crying, and I slept crying. I had horrible eating habits, my anxiety reduced my appetite which led to major weight loss, my hair began to thin, and I had frequent panic attacks. And yes, this was still a major behavioral issue I struggled with while continuously doing therapy.

For a long time, I resented what I went through. I constantly questioned “why me?” “Why couldn’t it have been one of my friends?” “Why not someone else?” I despised how others, especially my friends, pitied me. Their “I am so sorry…” was not enough for me. They could not feel what it was like under my skin. The pain, the way I suffocated and drowned in my own tears every night. They were not the ones with their mom on the line, with perhaps her days counted. They did not experience the sensation of their stomach’s dropping watching their mom walk through her bedroom door with her head shaved crying. They did not see their mom put on a fake smile every week leaving the house to do chemotherapy and watch her come back weaker each time. They did not know what it was like to take charge of the house while their mom was sick in bed after late nights puking her guts out because of the strong treatment. They did not know the heartbreaking feeling of seeing drains attached to their mom’s breast after a mastectomy. And they especially did not know what it was like to see their mom stripped from something that made her the woman she was. It was hard, watching my mother with her long hair, strong and beautiful physique, fierce eyes, eager and always persevering to provide for her home, to then lose her hair, become fragile and weary, and spend most of her days in bed, crying. Out of everything though, it hurt the most watching the sparks in her eyes fade, and for the longest time I saw what it was like for someone to completely lose hope.

This all happened before and during eighth grade, my last year at Broadview Middle School. I have always been a hardworking, responsible student, but with everything that had gone down just before school started, I had doubts if I could manage going through the whole school year just above passing. Looking back, I underestimated myself. I thought poorly of my person and what I could accomplish. Not saying it was easy, but my late nights, ongoing hours looking at a screen, I do not regret any of it. Not if it meant becoming the person I am today.

Although my mother was going through her intense treatment at the time, she never failed to be my biggest supporter. She not only encouraged me to take part in the National Junior Honor Society, but strive to become a leader, in which I can proudly say I was awarded the Connecticut Association of Boards of Education Student Leadership Award. What drove my success was not the fear of being a failure, but the idea of becoming someone that others could look up to. It took plenty of coping skills and self -reflection to realize that I am bigger than the anxiety and depression that held me back for so long. I did not know of someone my age that had gone through a similar experience, so I strived to be one of a kind. To look back and say that yes, I did cry, yes, I did fall, and yes, I thought that I would not have a way out. But that I also did receive awards, that I did graduate Middle School with outstanding academic excellence, and that I did become something of myself.

*Me and my mom, 3 years post diagnosis, at Danbury High School, June 2023*

Today, I am currently going into junior year at Danbury High School, and 3 years have passed since my mom’s diagnosis. A lot in my life has changed, but I am grateful that regardless of the other difficulties I have been through, my mother is in good health and my mental health is nothing compared to what it was before. I personally believe everything happens for a reason, and I am not saying that I wanted to go through what I did, because I would not wish what I have gone through to anyone, but I am thankful I see another side of life I would not have been able to see otherwise. My heart goes out to all those who have or are currently battling cancer, especially teens that have gone through the same experience.

I still live with the small feeling that I might go through all this again – that is why I call it “my little pink.” Cancer will always be an aspect of my life, a string of uncertainty I am tied to. But my little pink has also brought out a side of me where I have learned to experience life to the fullest and feel like I have never felt before. I do not think I have ever been realer with myself than now. Life is short, and life is temporary, which is why I cherish every moment I spend with my mom because neither is her tomorrow, or mine guaranteed.