This essay is part of “Did ___ Ever Make Anyone Happy?” — a creative nonfiction series by Yu Taguchi.
→ Read the companion essay: An Unbeautiful Story of Fighting Cancer
Did Chemotherapy Make My Mother Happy?
—The Question of a Daughter Who Learned to Hate It—
My parents had a fierce complex about education. The reason I graduated from Rikkyo University was their expectations—nothing more. “A university that’s just right for a girl” was how they measured it.
My father was a Showa-era media man. My mother, a full-time housewife. Their relationship had already soured by the time I was old enough to notice. As a child, I was sure my father was the one at fault.
But now—living in a small corner of the media world myself—I understand him. When a good story appears, you chase it. You lose yourself in the work regardless of the hour. Coming home to a wife waiting with a resentful face, asking Why don’t you ever see me?—if it were me, I’d find that suffocating.
That mother of mine had a refrain: “Get an education. Build a career. Don’t end up like me.” “Without financial independence, you can’t even get a divorce.”
Go to a good university. Get a good job. Find stability.
That was her wish. I loved my mother, and I followed the path she laid out. It was also the era of “women in management-track positions” and “women entering the workforce”—it was almost fashionable.
So after university, I went to a certified public accountant’s office, then to a corporate planning department at a listed company, then to a business development division. I changed jobs, but I intended to stay a company employee.
Then I had a child, and before I knew it, the road back was closed. Corporate planning and business development meant overtime as a given. I scrambled to find a way to keep working.
That was when my relationship with my mother began to deteriorate. The gap between her demand—Go back to a proper company—and the reality of what my career had become never closed.
There were years we barely spoke.
My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer while I was serving as a CEO.
“I’m scared. Will you come with me to the hospital?”
At the time, my older sister was living with her. But my sister had developed kidney disease a few years earlier and was on dialysis. My mother must have wanted to spare her.
My mother was past seventy. The plan was standard treatment: ongoing chemotherapy. When I asked how she wanted to be treated, she said, “Don’t treat me like a sick person.”
She fought for about a year before she died. During that year, I took her out drinking once a month. “You’re a CEO, aren’t you? At least buy me a nice gift!” she’d say, demanding expensive souvenirs.
But of course, the side effects were there. Her hair fell out. She started wearing a wig.
When I told her, “That wig kind of looks like Bae Yong-joon!” she shot back, “Stop it! I hate Yonsama—so tacky!” and we laughed.
During that year, my mother and I—all our old grudges forgotten—talked like friends.
But the side effects worsened. She became unsteady on her feet. She fell and hit her face, bruises spreading across it. She began saying she wanted to stop chemo. She wanted palliative care.
When I relayed her wishes to the doctor, he said: “If your mother stops chemotherapy, she will die within two weeks.”
My mother said: “Doctor, please continue the treatment.”
Watching her suffer from the side effects, I grew to hate chemotherapy. I grew to hate the doctor.
Then, when the final round of chemo was exhausted, the doctor told her: “You fought so hard. But from now on, you don’t have to fight anymore.”
I will never forget what happened next.
“You told me to keep fighting just last week! What is this?! Why don’t I have to fight anymore?!”
My mother lunged at the doctor. I held her back with everything I had. A person can summon this much strength, I thought, as I gripped her body.
The doctor turned his back on us, as if to say, The rest is up to the family. All that vomiting, all those dizzy spells—what had any of it been for? I felt hollow beyond words.
Just as the doctor predicted, my mother died about two weeks later.
The last time we spoke, she said: “Whatever path you choose, I’ll support you.”
Those were the words I had wanted to hear my entire life.
And then: “I’m glad it was you with me, not your sister.”
That was probably because I was good at pretending not to treat her like a sick person.
I hated chemotherapy. But that year with my mother—it was time that chemotherapy gave us.
And yet, I watch another person I love suffering from it now, and I keep asking the same question.
Did chemotherapy ever make anyone happy?