My Kimi: The Fighter and the Soft Place to Land

From the moment she arrived—a three-pound "Mohican" born months early—Kimi was a fighter. She survived the incubator, childhood accidents, and even a hairline skull fracture. We thought we had seen every fire, until a December day in 2019. The 38-year-old voice on the other end of the phone whispered: “Mommy, I found a lump.”

​

The Whiplash of Diagnosis

The journey began with the cruelest kind of hope. At first, we were told it was benign. We cheered; we heaved a collective sigh of relief. But Kimi’s intuition wouldn't let it rest. She sought a second opinion and made a simple request to her doctor: “Don’t make me wait.”

The call came on New Year’s Eve: Malignant.

They had missed it. Suddenly, I was packing my life in Connecticut and heading back to Alabama. I understood the clinical terms—Triple-Negative Invasive Ductal Carcinoma—but I understood nothing about the emotional suffering that lay ahead.

​

Learning the Language of the Patient

With over 30 years in the medical field, I knew the science of "The Red Devil" chemo, the ports, and the plummeting white blood cell counts. But as a mother, I felt completely helpless. I watched her hair fall, her nails turn black, and the relentless waves of nausea take hold.

I made missteps. I tried to "fix" the situation with professional encouragement, until Kimi gave me the most important lesson of my life:

“Mommy, I don’t need that. I just need you to be a soft place for me to land.”

In that moment, I had to shut off my "Clinical Brain" and my "Mommy Brain" and simply be. I had to learn my child all over again—not as my baby or a patient to be managed, but as a woman fighting for her life who just needed to be heard.

​

Purpose in the Pandemic

Then came COVID-19. Isolation added a layer of cruelty to an already grueling process. Kimi had to ring the bell for the end of chemo alone. But in that solitude, she found her "Why."

She asked God for a purpose, and He gave her the vision for Kimi’s Closet. She recognized the disparities in care and support for women of color—her "Pink Sisters"—and decided to use her own crucible to make a difference for theirs.

​

The Ring is Not the End

Kimi rang the bell on June 19, 2020. We wanted to believe we were done, but the crucible of caregiving doesn't end with a ceremony. The fear of recurrence remains a shadow we walk with every day.

This was the hottest fire of my life. It forced us to face an unknown future together, and in doing so, it brought us closer than we had been in years. Today, Kimi shows no evidence of active disease. She is a voice for others, and I am her loudest cheerleader.

​

Caregiver Lessons from the Fire:

• Trust the Intuition: Kimi’s insistence on a "second opinion" changed everything.

• Release the "Fix-it" Mode: Sometimes the most powerful care isn't a medical solution; it’s being a "soft place to land."

• The Advocacy is Constant: Being a caregiver means staying vigilant and supportive long after the treatment ends.