From the moment I was brought into this world, my mind was overwhelmed with thoughts. My little, immature brain had no idea what to do with it all. Most of the thoughts or moments were forgotten seconds after they happened. Until one day memories started to stay. My first memory that stuck was when I was three years old at Disney World. I vividly remember walking through the parks, one hand holding my sister’s while the other held my dad’s. Ever since then my mind has been making countless memories. From the smallest moments, like a smell that reminds me of my grandma’s house to the biggest ones, like watching my sister walk down the aisle. 

I never knew how much I took my memories for granted until a year ago when my whole world was changed forever. On Mar. 2, 2021, my mom was diagnosed with a meningioma. 

According to the Mayo Clinic, “A meningioma is a tumor that arises from the meninges — the membranes that surround the brain and spinal cord.”

This type of tumor grows slowly and usually goes unnoticed for a long time. The tumor was the size of a golf ball. A golf ball-sized tumor growing inside her brain, slowly taking away bits and pieces of my mom. Her memories were being taken from her. It was changing everything about her. The worst part was that because of how slow these types of tumors grow; she could have had it for 20 years. I was 17 at the time we found out. 20 years. She could have had this inside of her brain for 20 years. That’s my whole life. Has she really had this tumor my whole life? Was this thing slowly taking away my mom before I was even born?  The biggest question of them all was, do I really know my mom? 

Before I knew it my brain was overwhelmed with moments that would turn into the most vivid memories I have, and will probably ever have. All the times I caught my mom crying. All the nights I cried myself to sleep thinking about everything negative I had ever said or done to my mom. Every time I ever yelled or said something to her I did not mean. The guilt was my own kind of tumor, eating away at every part of me. 

I remember the silent drive up to the Mayo Clinic. My dad would try his best to start conversations like nothing was happening but the only comments I had were to turn the AC on because it was getting too warm. 

I remember the smell of bleach and cleaning supplies mixed with lavender and any air freshener they could use to mask the hospital stench as I walked through the halls. I remember that hospital like the back of my hand. My distraction those days was walking around learning anything I could about the history of the Mayo Clinic. My favorite distraction, however, was definitely the cafeteria. 

The worst memory of them all was the minutes before they took my mom into the 12-hour long surgery. My dad and I woke up at 5 a.m., had a hearty hotel breakfast, consisting of yogurt and cereal, then drove to the hospital. We met my mom in the ICU; she had already had a short surgery to insert a drain into her brain because the tumor had caused hydrocephalus. I had never seen my mom this way. Tubes tangled around her body; her head shaved. She was a completely different person. It really all did feel like a movie, except 100 times worse, because we were the main characters. 

As horrible as this time was, I can be thankful for the memories I have. Even though I would rather forget most of them, I will never take my memories for granted again. They remind me to make the most of every day because everything can change in a blink of an eye. They remind me how many people I have supporting me even when I don’t always feel it. Most of all they remind me of how important family is. There is no one who understands or cares for you more than your family. When I think I hate them, I remember everything we have been through together and how far we have come. Even if someday I lose my memories, I only hope to have my family, like my mom did, to help me remember.