I'm an only child. My mom's cancer diagnosis made me realize I have no one else in my life.

• I'm an only child and my mom had me when she was 20. 
• When I was 24 and she was 44, she was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. 
• As her only child I was responsible for taking her to all her appointments and caring for her. 

Growing up an only child to a young single immigrant mother was a lot of pressure. I knew at an early age that some people in our lives did not think we would be successful in life given our circumstances. My mom was determined to prove them wrong, and her goal to do so became mine.

We were a team, according to her. When she'd come home from a long day of work and the house was a mess with no dinner waiting for her, she'd sit me down and give me the "we are a team" talk. She'd remind me it was her responsibility to go to work and provide for us and my responsibility to help around the house as much as I could because it was just the two of us.

Some people might think it's unreasonable to expect that from a kid and trust me, as a kid, so did I. But I realize now this line of thinking prepared me for one of our greatest matches. Her fight against breast cancer.

She was diagnosed at 44

My mom worked hard to put me through college on her own. With a degree at 22 years old, I thought we had beaten the odds and proven our "haters'' wrong. Our work as a team was on pause, and we could enjoy life a little more. But when I was 24 years old, my mom was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. She inherited a rare gene mutation that makes it more likely a person will get cancer at a young age.

Within a week of her diagnosis, she started an aggressive chemotherapy plan that would be followed by a double mastectomy, an oophorectomy, and radiation.

As her only child, I was now responsible for taking her to all of her doctor's appointments, chemotherapy sessions, physical therapy, and surgeries. I was her human crutch when she needed to get from one room to another. I sat her down in the shower and bathed her when she lost her strength. I held her in my arms as she cried and apologized to me for the journey we were about to embark on.

If she dies, I have no one

My mom is now a year into remission. Women with a BRCA2 gene mutation have a higher-than-average chance of getting a second cancer. She tells me if it comes back, she does not want to fight it. She says the emotional and physical pain is too much to bear for a second time. When she first said this, I told her if she doesn't fight it again, I'll have no one.

My mom is the kind of mother that would give me the world if she could, and in many ways, she has. I've had a best friend who taught me how to be a "chingona." Someone I can call when I lock my keys in my car, or I have a funny story to tell. And being her only child meant I did not have to fight siblings for financial or emotional support.

I never considered a world where we didn't grow old together. We're only 20 years apart. Before learning about her cancer, the chances we'd end up in the same retirement home seemed fairly high.

Now, when I think of a world without her, my heart breaks into a million pieces. I'm constantly torn between spending as much time with my mom as possible because I'm not sure how much I'll have left with her and spending time curating a life outside her to cushion the blow.

This experience has forced me to realize that creating a community of love and support outside my relationship with my mom is essential for my own survival.