Seeing me come home from hospital, chest bandaged and without my left breast, my children were filled with pity. I told them it was alright because had I kept the breast, I’d be sick. But without it, I’d be well. After all, I loved them not with my breast, but with my heart.

I observed that in the beginning, the older one, Gino, was more affected. At nine, he could understand the meaning of sickness and the permanence of death. He worried about what would happen if I did die, about me not receiving my ‘allowance’ if I didn’t go to work, and about the risk of making me sicker if he brought in germs from school.

Dana, at five, just cried whenever her Kuya cried. She said it made her feel sad to see her Kuya in tears.

Yet, it was Gino who adjusted quickly to the rigors of treatment. He’d ask questions whenever he felt worried, or heard something that bothered him. More important, he was open to us not knowing all the answers, but was satisfied that his parents were trying their best to cope just as he was. He understood that the ‘abnormality’ of treatment—having me stay at home, not driving-always sleeping, being bald—was necessary so we could get back to our old routines in due time.

It was Dana who found it difficult adjusting to the constant discussion about hospitals, doctors, cancer, and death. She didn’t like it when I stayed overnight in the hospital for my treatments.

In November 2004, in the middle of six chemotherapy cycles which would be completed in December, she was afraid she herself would die.

“I don’t want to die, Mama. Because that would mean I can’t be with you anymore…You know, when you sleep in the hospital, I’m always afraid you won’t be coming home anymore. And I cry because I want to be near you and you can’t be here because you’re in the hospital.”

Over a few months, she had begun understanding the severity of cancer and the possibility of death. In her yearbook entry for Kinder 2, she said the magical power she wanted was “to heal all sickness so I can cure my mother of her cancer.”

I completed 28 days of radiotherapy in March 2005. It was a happy time for us. We had hoped to put breast cancer behind us. I attended Dana’s Kinder 2 culminating activity sans wig or bandanna. She and her Kuya had their birthdays in March and January, respectively, and both felt more mature after successfully waging the cancer battle with me.

Imagine our shock when in July 2005, doctors found that my breast cancer had spread to six other parts of my body, including the hip and the left rib. The condition is called Stage 4 or metastatic breast cancer, and patients only had a 16% chance of surviving to their fifth year. Gino, now 10 and in fifth grade, was terribly disappointed. “Di ba Ma, magaling ka na? Di ba nagamot ka na?” (Aren’t you well already, Ma? Didn’t you get treated already?)

Dana, now six and in first grade, was more direct. “Mama, mamamatay ka na ba?” (Mama, will you die already?)

It was a new storm we had to weather and I submitted once again to another six cycles of chemotherapy, which lasted all the way to November 2005.

At one time during the course of my new treatment, I was powdering my face using compact pressed powder when Dana asked that she too use the powder. I told her, the powder was for older ladies and that she will get to use one when she reaches high school or even sixth grade. Then she blurted out, “E patay ka na nu’n” (“But you’ll be dead by then”). I felt a knife stab my chest. When I probed, she started to cry saying she was just afraid I would die.

Gino was furious at his little sister saying she was worrying too much, because Mama would not die yet.

We were all learning our own lessons, coping in our own ways. It was a trying time that haunts us every so often. Each time we see or read something sad, it would bring us back to when we ourselves were sad and afraid.

In December 2006 or a full year post-treatment, seven-year old Dana was reading a condensed version of "The Northern Lights: The Soccer Trails" by Michael Arvaarluk Kusugak. It is the story of a little girl, Kataujaq, growing up in the Arctic. Kataujaq (Inuit for rainbow) lost her mom, who died when the "big disease" swept their village. Kataujaq was very lonely and was reminiscing about the few days she remembers spending with her mom as a really young girl. She asked me, "Paano na kaya kung ikaw na (ang mamatay), Mama?" (How would it be, Mama, if it is already you who will die?)

I told her that like Kataujaq, the memories we make of our time together will keep her company even after I'm gone. It was another opportunity to clarify, educate, and assure.

The following month, in January 2007, Gino wrote four sentences as the biography of his mother for his sixth grade English class, as follows: My mother is a generous loving mother. Her life is just like a steep rocky mountain. Reaching her goals, finishing her studies, trying to get a promotion is just hard. She had breast cancer but survived it.

He made me realize that the cancer experience is but a tiny portion of the lives we are all trying to live well.

I have required no further medical treatment since 2005. Dana is in fifth grade and Gino is in third year high school. With their dad, we continue our journey, surviving both cancer and life, in the loving, consoling company of one another.