In almost every modern-day TV show, there is a “life-changing crisis” or a critical event that leaves the audience clinging to their seats and anticipating the outcome of the dilemma. I lack the buttery popcorn or cheap 3D glasses that a TV show offers, but I can say that I’ve been awaiting the outcome of my ongoing dilemma for the past year.

With my glasses askew and foggy, two masks adorned on my face, and rubber gloves secured, I dumped the seven boxes of Clorox wipes onto the kitchen floor. My mom appeared by my side in an instant, grabbing the wipes and hauling them into the large crate that stood in the center of our living room. A deep sigh and a slight scolding for the rip in my glove snapped me back into reality. My mother was diagnosed with Breast Cancer a week before my fourteenth birthday.

An organic fanatic with a love for exercise and clean eating, the entire family was in disbelief at the news. There was an initial state of denial, in which my family was outraged over the “misreadings” and “scams” that the hospital had somehow conducted. But as the visits began to deliver the same results, our household quickly unraveled into a panic. Middle school was spent at home, alone while my mom underwent several treatments and tests. When my mother was cleared of cancer, the family had already gained a new sense of caution. Removal of sugary goods in the pantry and an extra face mask were simply essentials in our newfound way of life.

Rewinding to the early days of mom’s diagnosis feels like an entirely different realm when I am forced to come back to a rollercoaster of a year, otherwise known as COVID-19. Living life in a pandemic with a cancer survivor is far from a walk in the park. The large crate in our living room is stuffed to the brim with cleaning supplies and N-95 masks, a kind reminder of the precautions we have to make when we step out of the house. We’ve kept a calendar that sits profoundly on our kitchen fridge. Seven months and four days since my family has been to another household. Six months since we last saw my sister, who is attending a military academy in New York. Seven months since we had eaten in a restaurant. I have a list of things that I miss from life pre-quarantine and I know that my mother has one too. My mother’s indifferent facade hides her desire for normalcy; a look so desperate that one may even question the point of our efforts. To outsiders, our cautiousness may come off as extreme or unnecessary. But for our little family of four, mom’s health is of utmost importance; more than a chicken parmesan at Olive Garden or a housewarming party down the block.

The next time I feel the overwhelming urge to complain about having to decline an invite, I’ll remind myself to take a look at the supply crate and remember just what exactly is on the line in the circumstances that we are faced with. And mom? I’ll stay as long as you need me to, just let me know when to whip out the Clorox.