A Daughter's Unanswered Grief

On January 17, 2020, my mother and I began a journey we believed would save her life.

She had traveled from Banyo to Bamenda seeking medical care. The hospital there referred her to another facility in Bamenda for proper treatment. From there, we continued to Big Mbingo. The road between Bamenda and Mbingo was difficult, tense, and unpredictable. But we were hopeful. My mother was strong. She was full of life.

At the hospital in Mbingo, they scanned her. The results showed nothing unusual. We waited for the specialist, but we were told he could not come because of the insecurity along the road. We were asked to return on February 28.

When the results came back, the words written there were confusing: “Cancer of the unknown.”

My mother laughed.She looked at me and said, “If they cannot find it, then maybe it is not serious.” We left Mbingo and returned to Bamenda. Because of the upcoming ghost town restrictions, my mother decided to go back to Banyo to rest. She promised she would return a week before her appointment. I agreed.

In March 25, at around 5 a.m., I received a call. My mother had died around midnight.

Just like that. No warning. No explanation. No clear medical understanding of what truly took her life.We buried her. But I have not rested since.

What does “cancer of the unknown” mean? How can something so serious have no clear origin? How can a scan show nothing, and yet death arrive so suddenly?

Later, I learned (Through Google) that Cancer of Unknown Primary is a condition where doctors detect cancer cells but cannot identify where the cancer began. It is rare, but it exists. Sometimes the primary tumor is too small to detect. Sometimes it spreads before it is found. But knowing the medical definition does not heal the wound of unanswered questions.

In many rural communities, women travel long distances for care. Roads are unsafe. Specialists are unavailable. Appointments are delayed. Medical explanations are brief or unclear. Families are left holding complex medical terms without understanding what they truly mean.

“Cancer of the unknown” became more than a diagnosis. It became my grief. My mother was not just a patient. She was a woman who laughed in the face of fear. She trusted the system. She believed she would return for her appointment. She believed she had time.

I often wonder how many other daughters have buried their mothers without ever receiving a clear explanation. How many women face illness surrounded by uncertainty, insecurity, and silence?

My mother’s memory is still fresh in my mind. Her laughter in that hospital room echoes louder than the diagnosis itself. Her death may have been labeled “unknown,” but her life was known. Her strength was known. Her love was known.

And I share this story so that the unknown does not silence us.