She tried to maintain her normal life.
She still vacuumed every day. She made it to her son’s Little League games when she could. But her life was different now, with chunks of hair in the brush, vomit in the toilet and emptiness where her breast used to be.
One of her son’s earliest memories is of when she couldn’t take the pain and sickness of the chemotherapy anymore. He was 5, and he remembers her crying and kicking the coffee table, angry at the breast cancer that had taken a part of her and at God for letting it happen. He had never seen his mom like that before.