This is the final post in my reunion series–an emotional journey of motherhood interrupted, healing, and rediscovery on the yellow brick road.

Yellow Brick Road Through Cancer: Motherhood Interrupted

I originally wrote about this journey in July 2021, three months after my double mastectomy and two months after my youngest daughter played the Scarecrow in her school’s production of The Wizard of Oz. It all felt hazy back then—like I was the perfect role model for that scarecrow without a brain. But now the way I see it, she was the role model.

But I just as well could have been Dorothy, lost, trying to find my way home. My oldest, Skylar, had played that role in 2018 during her 8th grade production (when Alexandra was only in 4th grade, too young for the plays yet), so we both knew what it meant to wake up and find you’re not in Kansas anymore.

What I didn’t realize then was that both my daughters would be the ones to lead me down the yellow brick road.

Four years later in 2025, I’ve been writing about reunions this month, and I can’t think of any better reunion than The Wizard of Oz. I’m rewriting that original post because I have the insight I was only guessing at then. Back in my cancer haze, all my best intentions made no sense. So here I am, rewriting what I meant to say the first time.

Back then, I was still finding my footing after my own cancer journey, the changes seemed insurmountable, and the heartache of winning cancer and losing motherhood converged at once.

In the swirl of my emotions, I found my vintage Wizard of Oz dollhouse, which had survived my sister’s and my childhood, as if that wasn’t enough, and then a fire. It was the worse for wear but ready to go on new journeys, if still nostalgic for what once was— a lot like me.

It helped me hold on to my dreams, however thwarted they had become. Before cancer, I dreamed of my life with my family, but after cancer, it felt too scary to say out loud, and I felt like I was sitting alone. Who was I without my family? I needed the metaphor—the yellow brick road to find my way home again.

When Skylar graduated 8th grade back in 2018—yes, that performance where she played Dorothy—I was so worked up that she was graduating 8th Grade, five days before her performance, I came down with the flu. What a redirect! Instead of worrying about the end of our life as we had known it, I had one clear, urgent prayer: please let me be fever-free so I can hear her sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”

Watching Judy Garland sing it once a year as a child stirred something in me. But there was nothing like watching my daughter sing it. I had dreamed of being Dorothy once, of singing like that.

Thankfully, I was fever-free and heard my daughter sing—so much better than being stuck with only faint memories of Judy Garland. It was my dream come true.

Skylar went on to high school, and before I had time to worry again about what would happen to us, I got cancer in August 2020.

But then things get fuzzy. Looking back now, I realize that during my cancer treatment, Skylar was in 11th grade and Alexandra was in 7th grade—but in the fog of chemo and surgery, I lost track of their milestones entirely. I lost all track of time and somehow missed a whole year of their lives. Talk about motherhood interrupted.

The last thing I remember planning—my last act of motherhood before treatment took over—was when I found out I’d have my first day of chemo and two days later, Alexandra’s birthday. I got on the phone and asked all the moms to plan a birthday party for Alexandra. I had no idea what to expect for myself, but if I went to the land of Oz, I wouldn’t let Alexandra’s birthday go by unnoticed.

I’m crying just thinking about how supportive the moms were. They took better care of Alexandra’s birthday than they did of their own kids’ birthdays.

And I have to tell you, from what I remember of that day, to be there but not be there for her, hurts.

And to have no idea what Skylar was going through that year, kills me.

You have to make this pact—I will survive, but I have to shelve motherhood for now. Deal? But it’s the hardest deal you ever have to make—like you have to get the broom of the Wicked Witch to get back home.

And then, when it’s over, “Ding, dong, the witch is dead,” how do you take back what you gave away?

I remember those family nights watching TV with everyone. I’d inevitably fall asleep and miss the show, but I needed to be there in the same room with them, to pretend I was laughing and partaking in that moment. I had already given up motherhood, but did I have to give up those cozy nights in the family room with my family, too?

My heart aches to remember that forgotten year–that I could continue to be that Mom to the girls I had set out to be. Cancer interrupted those plans. Cancer interrupted motherhood.

It was hard to rebound. I don’t think I ever forgave myself for not being there for them when they needed their mother, and I couldn’t be that person.

But I’m putting too much power in my hands—it wasn’t a chess game. I was following the yellow brick road, no matter what happened on the way home from Oz.

Then came Spring 2021. Because of COVID, Alexandra’s grade school had to do a repeat show where they already had the costumes, something simple, so they did The Wizard of Oz again. This was just one and a half months after my bilateral mastectomy, nine months after my last dose of chemo.

If seeing Skylar play Dorothy didn’t melt my heart back in 2018, seeing Alexandra play the Scarecrow in 2021 did.

Here I was, just one and a half months after my double mastectomy, and I had become the role model for Alexandra to sing what I had been feeling: “If I only had a brain.”

But I could have been a role model for the Tin Man who needed a heart.

I felt bad that year because I didn’t organize the Kisses for the Cast. I had done that for six years—I even did drive-by kisses during COVID. I turned to Alex, “Cancer was no excuse, I should have done the kisses this year.”

And just as I said those ridiculous words, the director made an announcement thanking me for all my years doing the kisses. I was awarded a giant Hershey kiss and a standing ovation that put my heart back straight.

And I knew all about the courage that the Lion needed. I doubted my courage until the very second I needed more of it.

I had no courage—none. I wasn’t like these other courageous women who had fought the fight before me. Maybe if I could stockpile courage and save it up for a rainy day, I could. I remember complaining to Alex, “Everyone thinks I’m courageous, but I’m not. I can’t do this.” I think I still say that.

Sometimes, I’m unsure if I’m playing with my old childhood dollhouse or watching Judy Garland, Skylar as Dorothy, or Alexandra as the scarecrow; it all seems to turn into one.

Somehow, with the Wizard of Oz, you can’t help but dream.

My childhood dreams of who I would become were pushed aside by dreams of who my children would become. And all those dreams were interrupted when I gave up being a mother for a year.

And, somewhere in all that dreaming, all the parts I forgot about, my kids led me down the yellow brick road. I couldn’t see it, but they could. They led me every step of the way.

The reunion I was looking for wasn’t Dorothy finding her way home again—it was discovering I’d never stopped being their mother. And even when I thought I had, we all took that yellow brick road together.

If Motherhood Interrupted resonates with you, check out the rest of reunion month: