
11/05/2025
Last Mother’s Day I woke up in the suffocating quiet of the intensive care unit.
A nasogastric tube lodged in my throat, a central venous line protruding through my neck, cannulas lined both arms, drains snaked from my stomach, my body, a battlefield.
A 30cm scar now etched across my abdomen, the trace left behind by the removal of organs, the access point for hot chemotherapy that poured like molten fire through my insides, meant to scorch away the thing that tried to steal my life.
My mouth was bone-dry from 12 hours of incubation on an operating table.
I think to myself - I’m still here.
I couldn’t leave. Not now. Not yet. I would get back to them.
They told me: Only one in twenty survives this.
But even as my body lay broken, I told them: I will be the one. Watch me.
And I did.
This Mother’s Day, I wake not to machines, but to the soft glow of sunlight slipping through my window.
Not to the cold hum of survival, but to the sweet chaos of my children, the sound of life.
The tubes are gone.
The scar remains, but it is no longer a mark of suffering. It is my emblem, the symbol of a mother who fought with everything she had to return to them.
It speaks not of pain, but of the power that survives the darkest of storms.
Of survival. Of love.
It is my proof. My prayer. My promise.
Happy Mother’s Day.
May we hold this day close, as the miracle it is, a gift I didn’t just receive, but fought for.