Jen Rogers: 39, journalist
Type of cancer: Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma
Diagnosed at: 34
Mom to: James, 8, Cassie, 5; currently pregnant with her “post-cancer bonus baby”
“I'm pretty much like any other mom except I get a little weepier at my kids' milestones. I used to sit in the chemo chair—I had to have six rounds of chemotherapy treatment in all—and wonder ‘Am I ever going to see the first day of kindergarten?’ So when that happens, it's very overwhelming. But it's good to have those reality checks along the way to remind you to enjoy the little moments. The further away you get from it, the harder it is to remember you had cancer. That's one of the reasons I stay involved through my volunteer work with the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. I'm still meeting and talking with people who are in the trenches. It's also a good way to remind my kids that I am a survivor. I told them what was going on right away, but they were young. At some point they're going to realize, yeah, cancer kills a lot of people and it's really bad and my mom had it. I don't want it to be some shocking event. My nightmare was always that some kid in the playground would say ‘Your mom has cancer.’ My oldest was only three years old, but I wanted him to know so he could say ‘Yeah, I know that. What's the big deal?’ I have a photo of me bald that I keep with all of our other family photos. It reminds me to not get too lazy in the way I'm behaving as a person and as a mother and to not take everything for granted.”
Moms on a Mission
Debbi Scheulen: 44, was an insurance adjuster
Type of cancer: Anaplastic large-cell lymphoma
Diagnosed at: 41
Mom to: Alex, 13
“It took me about six months before I got off my butt and dealt with the spots on my skin and the tumor on the back of my thigh that I kept insisting was a cyst. I had all the excuses to not see my doctor: I'm a single mom, I was working, I didn't have time, it would go away. Once I got diagnosed, telling my son was hard, but I absolutely used the word ‘cancer.’ We're all each other has and I didn't want to dance around it. And anyway, my treatment—six rounds of chemo, then radiation—was going to make me lose my hair, so he was going to figure it out eventually. I was determined to still do what I had to do. People wanted to help me cook and clean my house, but I told them that was my reason to get out of bed every day. I would say, ‘If you want to do something for me, just come visit me, hang out and keep me company. Cancer rearranges your priorities 100 percent. I went back to working over 40 hours a week, but it was too much. If I have a year left, five years, ten years, whatever it is, it's going to be spent with my child. I'm there when he wakes up, and I'm there when he gets home from school. I don't want him to look back and say, ‘Hey, my mom was great because she worked her fingers to the bone to support me.’ I want him to remember me being there every day. My biggest priority used to be providing for him, but I've stopped trying to keep up with everyone else. My son has a nice place to live, he's getting a good education and three square meals a day, and, most important of all, he has me.”
