There is a thought I carry now that I don’t think we talk about much: I have to stay alive.
I know nobody can promise that. I know loving my daughter more than anything doesn’t give me control over how long I get to be here. But since losing my husband, taking care of my health has taken on a weight I wasn’t prepared for. There is something about her being an only child that also just makes me feel guilty that she would be so extra alone, if that makes sense.
I’m her only living parent. That sentence is still hard to write.
There’s the everyday responsibility of being the person who makes decisions, keeps things moving, and shows up. And then there’s the quieter responsibility underneath all of it. The worry about what would happen if something happened to me. I think this runs extra deep in me because my dad DID pass away from cancer at 49, when I was 16.
She has already lost her dad. The thought of her losing me, too, is something I struggle to even let myself think about. I am her “person”.
Health appointments feel different now
I had my mammogram. I had had my lab work. I had my annual check. I also had a colonoscopy, and at 45, they found a precancerous polyp. Not entirely shocking because my dad died of colon cancer at 49, but a little jolt of reality for sure. Thank goodness I went in for the colonoscopy when I did. My doctor suggested I undergo more genetic testing because of the family history. Getting the biopsy results back after my colonoscopy and hearing “precancerous” was not what I wanted to hear, but thank goodness I am being proactive about my health (and I encourage you to do the same.)
Writing those things down makes them sound fairly straightforward. Make an appointment. Have the test. Follow up.
Emotionally, it feels much bigger than that.
My dad died at 49. I’m 45. Those ages feel awfully close when it’s your own life and your own family.
Hearing “precancerous” brings up a lot. I understand that it isn’t the same as hearing that I have cancer, but it’s still a word that stays with you. Especially with my dad’s history. Especially after losing my husband.
I’m grateful to have that information. I also wish getting information didn’t sometimes feel so scary. Both feelings can exist together.
After caregiving, it’s hard to be the patient
After spending so much time caring for someone else, turning that attention toward myself feels unfamiliar.
For so long, there was another person’s health to think about. Another appointment, another concern, another thing to keep track of. My own needs could slide further down the list because something else always felt more urgent.
Now I have to make room for my own appointments and follow-ups, even when I’m tired and would rather not think about another medical thing.
Caregiving doesn’t stop affecting you just because the caregiving has ended. There’s still the exhaustion. There are still the memories. And there is the awareness that life can change in ways you cannot fix, no matter how hard you try.
That awareness follows me into my own health appointments.
The pressure behind taking care of myself
I’ve been a runner for years. Being active has been a big part of my life, and taking care of my health has always mattered to me. But now there’s an extra layer to it.
I want to be here as my daughter grows up. I want the big milestones, of course, but I also want the ordinary days. The conversations in the car. The laughing about something ridiculous. The phone calls when she needs her mom.
Sometimes the pressure to make sure I’m here for all of that feels overwhelming.
I have to remind myself that taking care of my health doesn’t mean I can guarantee an outcome. I can keep my appointments, share my family history, ask questions, and follow through with my doctors. I can do my best with the information I have.
But I can’t turn staying alive into another task that I’m supposed to accomplish perfectly.
That’s a hard thing to accept when the stakes feel this personal. I talk about this a lot in therapy.
I want to be here for myself, too
My daughter is a huge reason I’m making my health a priority. But I’m trying to remember that I matter in this, too.
I want more years because there is still life I want to live. There are places I want to go, races I want to run, and happy moments I want to experience. After everything, I’m still learning what my future can look like.
Right now, that means having the tests, doing the follow-ups, and moving through the uncertainty of more genetic testing. It means being honest that I’m scared sometimes, even while I’m grateful to be taking these steps.
I don’t have a neat ending to this. I’m still in it.
I just know that being the only living parent carries a kind of fear that can be hard to explain. If you carry it, too, I hope hearing someone else say it out loud helps you feel a little less alone.
I want to be here for my daughter. I want to be here for myself. And I’m doing what I can to take care of the person we both need me to be.
