Finding My Oxygen

A few months ago, I launched an enterprise aimed to help children enduring challenging times: the death of a loved one, a major life change, or a family member's illness. I also wrote a guide to explore and underscore the tenets that lie at the heart of my endeavors, explaining what kids need in trying times, why they need it, and how we can give it to them. My research on this subject took the better part of a year; the philosophy was a lifetime of experience and schooling in the making.

When I finished my guide and blogged it, it occurred to me that I needed to say something to the adults engaged in trying to help such children. I wrote the following in an "afterward:" You are Not an Afterthought.

“Oxygen masks have become an oft-referenced analogy in coping: your first order of business is to take care of yourself so that you can properly attend to children. For the sake of yourself and the sake of children in your life, please don’t neglect yourself. Take time to pay attention to your own psychological health. Give yourself permission to grieve and to mourn. By attending to your own needs in times of crisis, you are not only maintaining a stable base for the children in your life, you are also modeling self-care and healthy coping. That is another priceless gift you offer to children."

Now I find myself in a rather unusual position. The research that I’ve compiled for others is now the very advice that I find myself needing most. I have been diagnosed with breast cancer and am undergoing a double mastectomy tomorrow.

As crises are wont to do, my diagnosis blindsided me and effectively wiped out every ounce of expertise I had spent so much time acquiring and honing. I was knocked senseless, gazing at my three young children through a new lens of fear and inexperience.

My mother's instinct kicked into hyperdrive. My diagnosis immediately became all about the children. What will I tell them? How can I protect them, keep them safe, keep things normal, shield them from fear and disruption and loss? What will they do if I die?

Thank goodness I had drawn a roadmap. I re-read my own advice with a new perspective; it was like starting from scratch. The relief I felt was two-fold: relief that I had a practical, easy-to-follow plan with action steps, and relief that this thing I had created and put out into the world was actually helpful (even if just to me). I did what I say to do, and it is helping tremendously.

But afterward, I got to the afterward, which shouldn't be an afterward. As any mother who has ever mothered can tell you, there is guilt and shame in a focus on oneself, even if some of us have done a better job than others in taking care of ourselves. As mothers, our tendency is to make sure our people are okay before we turn the focus to ourselves.

For me, it's always been more than instinct to turn first to the kids. It's been a way to keep myself in check, lest I become a self-indulgent, child-neglecting egomaniac. It's a negotiation. Did I "earn" this time away to get a pedicure? Before I go to the gym, am I satisfied with the amount of time and energy I've spent on my children? Can I feel guilt-free about spending another hour on my work today?

One would think that a cancer diagnosis and imminent major surgery relieves one of the fear of "being selfish," the cardinal sin of motherhood. A guilt-free green light to go ahead and put on whatever highly-individualized, specially-designed oxygen mask you need to sustain and enhance your life. One would be wrong. It's a different day, same old story. Aside from making sure my kids are ok, I have found myself at a loss to identify what I might personally need at this juncture.

I feel no pride in this. By now I recognize that this absence of self-care knowledge is not a badge of endurance or a sign that I have achieved a new level of selfless motherhood.  It is a red flag that if I don't do something to reverse this, I am hindering my recovery, my cancer fight, and my life. And if I'm dead, what good am I to my kids?

I suspect that I am not alone in the relentless minimization of the mother-self's needs. I share my current situation because I think it lays bare the absurdity of this motherhood guilt we impose on ourselves.

So, I'm finding my oxygen. I'm writing this blog entry and going to the hair salon, and forgiving myself for not spending those three hours with my precious children. Even though the moments before surgery are waning. Even though I know I will be absent from them in the coming weeks. Even though I might well lose all this newly styled hair. Even if I saved my mask for last.

If you can forgive me for taking this time for myself, you can forgive yourself for inhaling your oxygen, too. No matter what your circumstances.

What form will your oxygen mask take today?