We went to my dad’s favorite seaside restaurant to celebrate his birthday. My mom’s cough persisted, but we gave very little thought to it. She likely needed another round of antibiotics or more rest. As we left the restaurant, she suggested that we go to the emergency room instead of waiting another week for a new appointment, in the fear that she had a flu or cold that had gone awry. That afternoon in the hospital that will never escape my memory. I remember everything, from the clothes we were wearing to the dreary September rain that slid across the hospital windows.

With a solemn look on his face, the doctor showed us the results of her x-rays. She had stage IV ovarian cancer that had spread to both ovaries, the uterus and part of the intestinal tract. My mom never had bloating, changes in bowel habits, abdominal fullness, loss of appetite or any of the other signs that typically accompany this condition. In that moment, our worlds changed as our nightmare blurred into waking life. I remember going into a hospital restroom and vomiting, holding back tears and a cold sweat. I read that 1.5 million people are diagnosed with cancer annually, but I never thought our family would be part of that number.

There is nothing that could have prepared me for what happened next. “We will do everything to help her Karina. Unfortunately at this stage, things are complicated and it’s hard to say whether she will be OK.” Cancer never crossed my mind in the past. The potential for my mom’s mortality hit me like a runaway train. She is the sweetest, most selfless woman I have ever known — nobody deserves this, least of all her. As the only child, I felt lost and unsure how to navigate this new reality. Everything was falling apart. I knew I had to assist my parents in this transition through the toughest years we would ever experience as a family, but I did not feel prepared.There is absolutely nothing, no book, no support group, no set of guidelines for all that follows.

Recalling what my mom went through during the cancer treatments still brings tears to my eyes to this day. Her nails blackened, she became constantly fatigued, and she was constantly in pain. I remember one day coming home from school and she was crying. She asked me if I could remove her hair, as the follicles on her head felt like they were burning. Wiping away tears in private, I took the razor and watched as her long hair fell softly in the bathtub. We were extremely fortunate to have been able to afford medical insurance and at-home care. There were nurses at home with my mother that entire morning, she could have asked anyone, but, she did not feel comfortable to ask them for this favor. There is only so much that at-home care can provide.

Tears were shed every single night but nobody knew about it. In truth, I have never admitted this before. Family and friends knew about my mom’s condition but would have never guessed that I was barely pulling through. Optimism and a jovial nature can do wonders in completely masking pain.

There is such a phenomenon as an illusion of happiness. On social media and in front of others, everything was smooth sailing, an outsider would not have known what was truly happening throughout entire months of my time in high school. Some outsiders thought they did. At some point, word began to spread throughout high school about the cancer diagnosis. Alas, as an awkward 16-year-old who had previously dealt with bullying, I desperately wanted to keep this a secret. These kids thought they knew what was happening. According to some, she was terminal; according to others the trial was entirely fabricated so I could get into UC Berkeley. That was painful to hear; some people were actively erasing our struggle. There were days I wished the gossip was true and that things would go back to the way they were — it was my desperate wish that her diagnosis not be real.

Pixels on a screen are not proper barometers of happiness, nor are they indicators of what is truly happening in an individual’s world. All my funny social media posts from that time did not reflect the depth of my uncertainty or fear.

Through astounding medical care and fortune, my mom is alive to this day and healthier than ever. It has been five years and the chances of the cancer returning grow smaller with each passing day. I am thankful every single day that she is still with us, even if I do not necessarily show it on social media. There is more to my life than GIFS and memes.

Karina Pauletti writes the Thursday column on media discourse. Contact her at [email protected].