On Defining Moments, The C-Word and Faith

“Well I’m scared of what’s behind and what’s before…
And there will come a time you’ll see, with no more tears.
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see what you find there,
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.”

-Mumford & Sons “After The Storm”

Certain things in life I’ll never forget… Holding my little sister the day she was born. My first kiss at summer camp. Watching the second plane fly into the Twin Towers. Being in love for the first time and being told that he no longer loved me. Hearing John Mayer for the first time. Watching my country swear in it’s first black President. The night my dad left, and never moved back in. Walking through a township in South Africa. When Princess Dianna, Michael Jackson and other icons from childhood died. The day I moved to New York…

We all have moments in our lives that stand out above the others – that we’ll always remember. Points in time that, regardless of their distance from the present, will always feel like yesterday – their vividness and clarity perfectly preserved. We remember exactly where we were, who we were with, what happened and (more importantly) how it made us feel. They serve as milestones, stories to relay to our children and future generations. Some of them are shared with the world at large, some are unique to our own personal journeys. Some of them we hold on to with fondness, longing to return to them, and some we wish we could rid from our memories altogether, extinguishing their existence entirely. They change us, our perceptions and reality: These are our defining moments.

This Valentine’s Day was another one of those instances: The day my mom was diagnosed with cancer. No amount of preparation could have shielded me from the sheer terror, disbelief and outrage that flooded my mind. Without knowing it I was crouched on the ground against the wall in my kitchen. It was like I was in a bubble – everything outside of me was dark and spinning and blurry as I opened my eyes. I looked back down to see my free hand shaking like a leaf and I struggled to still it by tucking it between my knees. That word – that god-forsaken word – was taunting me, bouncing back and forth within my mind like a pinball machine, jarring me all over again with each bump. It mercilessly echoed in my ears as I rocked back and forth and tried to stop choking and remember how to breathe.

I’ll never forget my mother’s words to me and how adamant their tone: Whitney, listen to me. Do not bury me. Are you listening? Do not bury me yet in your mind. Don’t go there. 

Too late – I’d not just gone there, I was stuck there. I listened as she told me there were only two things in this world that she cared about and as long as they were alright she would be too – her daughters. And the scared, selfish little girl in me could only sob but I’m not ok without you. Because I’m not. I cannot fathom something happening to her or not having her in my life. She’s too important and vital to my own well-being. Let me get one thing straight – if there’s any person on the face of this Earth that is least-deserving of such a diagnosis it’s my mother. She’s too good and she’s already been through too much.

The next hour consisted of medical terms that only Google could later help me understand, future courses of action, tears, and me eventually saying that I had to hang up because I needed the night to let the news sink in. In reality, I needed to throw up and the time to sob out the grief in my chest. I knew in the back of my mind that she was scared too and that she was trying to put on her best “Mom voice” to calm my fears. But I couldn’t bring myself to do the right thing yet – to focus my efforts on being comforting and supportive and re-assuring her that she was going to be just fine. I’m ashamed of my selfishness in that instant and probably always will be. But the weight of that news was still coming down on me too hard.

She told me she had faith that God would get her through it – that I needed to believe and trust that. To which, yet again, the little girl replied No, I need you. Because I do.

Everyone believes in something. We have to – it’s what keeps us moving forward, keeps us believing that things will be alright and what keeps us from completely losing our sanity amidst that which we can’t explain or understand. Whether we want to admit it or categorize it as such, we all have faith in something: A Higher Power, modern medicine, Karma, the inherent goodness of the world, Divine Intervention or perhaps just in one another. But here’s what I think – I think that faith is an action, not a belief. It’s less of a noun and more of a verb. Faith is a decision. It’s about how you choose to move forward after that initial moment of impact. It’s remaining positive, forbiding something from debilitating you. Faith is getting up off your ass from that cold kitchen floor and telling yourself that you will do everything in your power to better the situation no matter how helpless you may feel – and trusting that it won’t be in vain.  It’s the refusal to allow tragedy to ruin you – to consume your life, to offer up what good you still have in it by getting distracted by what you don’t have. Faith is honoring the blessings that remain. Faith is grit and determination. Faith is being courageous, even if you don’t feel it.

That’s really what makes defining moments so… defining: Not what happens in that instant, but how you react to it. How you enable it to change you and mold you into who you are – picking for better over worse. It’s not that the walls caved in, it’s that you put your arms up, locked your elbows and refused to be crushed. It’s not that you went down, it’s that you got back up and kept going despite your wobbly knees. It’s how you took that first deep breath after you got the wind knocked out of you, even though it hurt like hell. It’s not that you were wronged, it’s that you didn’t allow yourself to retaliate despite the temptation. It’s not that you met Adversity, it’s that you looked him in the eye and gave him the finger. It’s when you remained certain that you’d do your best amidst the uncertainty. It’s when you clung tightly to what you knew to be true when your fears told you otherwise.

And here’s what I know to be true: That I love my mother and, more importantly, she loves me. That I would walk through fire with a smile on my face if it was for her. That she is the fiercest, strongest, and most courageous person I’ve ever encountered. That my mother is not the first or the last to be diagnosed with cancer. That it is not a death sentence. That I’ll be dammed if I let this or anything else steal any bit of joy in mine or my mother’s life that we’ve fought tooth and nail to obtain.

Lastly, I hold tightly to this truth: That if there is anything or anyone I know to believe in – to trust in, to have faith in, to keep moving forward for – it’s her.