Loss

Wondering who the women in this picture are?

• On the right: my mother
• On the left: her mother (my grandmother)

I was maybe one or two years old when my mother saved my life.

There is one thing that I've never had the courage to share openly regardless of whether it was obvious or not: I was adopted.

I was told that when my adoptive mother first glanced at me, she fell in love. Surprisingly I was the only black baby in the orphanage in Morocco, my brother tells me I was the most beautiful baby in that orphanage and that he was adamant on having our mother take me home. She did.

It feels like it was an eternity ago since I last saw my mother. I remember how strong my bond with her was. I remember how strict she was about others treating her four children (including me) EQUALLY. Funny story, on one of my sister's birthdays she had received a gift that my mother insisted on sending back as the gift did not include me. She said I have another daughter, her name is Yassira, and they are sisters.

My mother took us on amazing unforgettable holiday to Paris, Cancún (Mexico), Egypt, London. She was extremely outgoing and made sure our plates were full. We never had time to unwind and relax. We constantly had extracurricular activities every single day. Thanks to my mother I developed a plethora of sport skills: horse riding, tennis, running track, basketball, rhythmic gymnastics.

You could say that rhythmic gymnastics was MY thing. I started when I was four, and I remember my first try out so clearly. My mother was there of course and the instructor had me do the splits whilst she pushed my legs down, after that, I was on newspapers, national competitions, winning cups and medals (gold & silver)—it was as though my career took off.

One day, I arrived to my gymnastics lesson and was surrounded by my girl friends asking me whether I know that my mother has cancer. I was shocked, upset, anxious, baffled to say the least. That was the day I decided to quit. I went home, my mother was in her bedroom and I told her, “Mum, I don't want to go back to rhythmic gymnastics ever again.” She asked me why I took such a decision and advised me to think about it as I would one day regret it. I said, “No, all the girls are telling me you have cancer.” I specifically remember saying those words as I sat opposite her on her bed. She looked at me and replied: “What if they were right?”

Ever since then, things progressed, hair loss, weight loss, sickness, fatigue constant travelling. It was evident something bad was happening and neither of us could control it. The first time I truly saw my mother sick in bed was in Paris. I was under the impression that we were going to Paris for a holiday, but no, my mother was getting treated—she was looking for treatment EVERYWHERE.

My last birthday with her was on the October 24, 2005: I turned ten.

Seven months later, she was gone.

I felt like my world was crumbling. I was scared of what was to come without her. She was our protector and without her we felt alone and disorientated.

The only thing that kept me at peace the day she passed was when we entered her bedroom after her corpse had been washed and dressed all in white, we looked at her face and saw a smile.

It took me around 10 or 11 years to be OK, to be able to watch films based on cancer, to be able to look at bald people, to be able to not freak out the moment I heard the word "cancer." It was a long journey and an extremely painful one, but she will always be in my heart, forever my Hero.