What My Daughter's Cancer Diagnosis Taught Me About Being a Mom

By Raakhee Mirchandani

(Photo: Gavin Christopher/Tretorn)

My daughter Satya and I spent most of my maternity leave in various states of nap. At night, she was right next to me in a co- sleeper. During the day, we cuddled on the bed, the sofa, and anywhere comfy where we could catch a snooze. I would wrap my open-front sweater around the two of us like a cocoon, settling in for a long slumber. My favorite was when she lay on my chest, a warm weight in frog pose, my hand between her shoulder blades. In those tender moments, I finally understood what it meant to be a mom. At least, I thought I understood. I had no idea what was about to hit us—and what it would teach me about what being a mom is really about.

After almost seven months of perfect, sleepy days, Satya seemed sick. I called her pediatrician and said that something didn’t feel right, but that I didn’t want to be one of those new moms who was constantly freaking out. Satya’s intuitive doctor told us to come in, and when we did, she looked at me and said, “You’re the mom. If you think something is wrong, it probably is.” I just had a feeling, this pushy inner voice that compelled me to advocate for my baby and her health—even if it was probably nothing. The doctor examined Satya, and then ordered a urine test.

The results are what flagged Satya’s tumor.

My beautiful baby girl was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a type of cancer that generally affects children under five-years old. It didn’t come at once—we were in and out of hospitals from June to September—but in that time I morphed from the cuddly mom on the couch to a fiery force. At the hospital, I became Alpha Mom, a blur of animal print and curly hair, fighting for my daughter’s life. I set my alarm early so I could start calling the oncologist office two minutes before they opened—that’s how you nail the best appointment times. I showed up at the pediatrician’s office before they opened, unannounced and without an appointment, with coffee and cookies for the staff so that I could have my questions answered before their first patient arrived. I explained to the pediatric surgeon that cancer wasn’t going to take my daughter, even though I was terrified it would. I told him about Kali, the Hindu goddess who protected Satya and me, and how her spirit burned inside both of us. He really did a great job of nodding a smiling, seemingly unfazed by my insanity.

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I also cashed in every owed favor, unabashedly calling on family and friends, plus whatever little credit I may have had with the Universe. My sweet husband Agan stayed even and strong, a healthy balance to my frenetic full-frontal approach. I forbade everyone, even the doctors, from using the “C” word around Satya, believing that if we gave it a name and acknowledged its presence, it might stay longer than we wanted. It seemed as though we had just become a family, and yet there I was, worried that her first year would be our last, wondering how our marriage would survive without her. But as far as Satya was concerned, in both breath and spirit, there wasn’t a thing that she couldn’t do, and nothing we wouldn’t beat together.

Following a series of tests and smaller procedures, Satya’s surgeon eventually informed Agan and I that our baby would need to undergo a six-hour operation to remove the tumor. The hope was that the doctors could do it laparoscopically—cracking, scraping, and removing the peach-pit sized tumor through Satya’s belly button. This would mean minimal scarring and, as he joked, no visible marks for when she wanted to wear a bikini years from now. When he said it, I let myself think for a second that Satya and I might actually get there. I visualized the two of us fighting about what was appropriate, her teenage self-lobbying for less, me setting boundaries, and she—like her mom—fighting them. I held onto that imaginary moment dangling somewhere in our future as I sat in a waiting room, praying for our miracle.

And it came. Following the surgery, Satya’s doctor told us that he had successfully removed the tumor, but that she would now need an MIBG scan—an intensive three-day procedure to determine if the cancer cells had spread to other places in her body. Satya—who had been through more than any person, much less a baby, should ever have to endure—shrieked as the radiology technician attempted to swaddle her in white hospital sheets to keep her still for the scan. Incapable of standing by, I scooped her up my arms, placed her face down on my chest, and climbed onto the machine myself. I began singing softly in her ear, just like I had those first few weeks of maternity leave, except this time I was sure not to move my body—not even an inch. The room was dark and quiet and the hum of the machine was my back-up band. My mom and her twin sister, who sat in plastic chairs against the wall, started singing too. Our calming chorus swelled, and somewhere between the verses, Satya and I both fell asleep. When we woke up, I heard the best news I’ve ever received: The surgery had been a success. Nothing had spread. My daughter had beat cancer before she could walk.

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Before her first birthday, Satya became a survivor. A lucky little lady who was healed by a team effort of amazing doctors, heart songs, prayers, and a mother’s protection. I know there are families who aren’t as lucky, and we carry them in our hearts every day, fighting to put this behind us and really live. And so in the six months that Satya’s been cancer free, I’ve let my other side—my inner Alpha Mom—take a break. I’ve eased up on the rigorous nap and feed schedule. I’ve accepted that Satya will transition from the bottle to the straw cup when she’s up for it. And I resist chasing her around the playground, wiping down the swing before she gets in.

I thought being a new mom was about bonding, breastfeeding, and chronicling firsts. The truth is, I don’t know what Satya’s first food was, the day she crawled, or the first word she spoke. I was terrified we wouldn’t have any seconds. While our first year together was an intensive crash course in mommyhood, we all survived, Satya, Agan and me. We were all we needed. And that’s what being a mom is really about—resilience, ferocity and the unconditional, unwavering belief that you are strong enough to do whatever it takes to protect your child.

Raakhee Mirchandani is the Head of Content/Entertainment and Lifestyle at the New York Daily News. Tweet her @Raakstar or follow Satya’s adventures at Instagram.com/RaakstarWrites. Raakhee ran a half-marathon on May 17, 2015 to raise money for the Tomorrows Children’s Fund at Hackensack University Medical Center. Please consider donating at crowdrise.com/satyasallstars.

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