That’s Not My Name…

When Did It Become Okay for Healthcare Professionals to Call Me “Mom”?

When I was pregnant with Max, I couldn’t wait for the day he would call me “Mom.” Three simple letters. M-O-M. A word that seemed so small, yet held such power. It would be an honor to hear him say it. A gift.

But then, things changed. As his health challenges began, I started to wonder if I’d ever hear that word from his lips. I hoped, but uncertainty clouded my every thought.  

And then, it wasn’t just Max who was calling me “Mom.”

The hospital visits, the doctor appointments, the endless therapies… suddenly, I found myself being called “Mom” by complete strangers. Nurses, doctors, therapists, even insurance reps. They didn’t know my name. They didn’t call me Dianely or Mrs. Cabrera, or even Ms. Martin. They called me Mom. 

For the last ten years, that’s been my name—Mom. The title I’d once imagined hearing from Max, my son, was now being used like a label. The one word that held the most precious meaning was suddenly being tossed around carelessly. It felt like a diminishment of who I was—my entire identity reduced to one role.

At first, I didn’t mind. Honestly, I wore it as a badge of pride. “Yes, I’m Max’s mom,” I’d say, feeling a sense of power in it. I was honored to be his advocate, his protector. It was a privilege.

But as the years went by, a shift began. After countless doctor’s appointments, endless advocacy, and moments of intense struggle, I started to notice a subtle, but clear change in tone. It wasn’t the proud “Mom” anymore. It was dismissive. As if that title was meant to distance me, to remind me that I wasn’t truly part of the team. I’d hear things like, “Mom, your son needs a G/J tube placement,” or “Mom, we think Max should be trached,” or “Mom, we know what’s best here.” It wasn’t that the words themselves were offensive, but the lack of respect behind them stung. I was more than just “Mom.” 

It wasn’t until I met the Palliative Care team that I understood how deeply I had been affected by this. This team made sure they learned my name. Dianely. De-uh-nel-E. They didn’t just know my name—they acknowledged my role, my expertise. They saw me as more than the title I wore because of my son. 

I’m not just Mom—I’m a woman who’s had a front-row seat to Max’s life. I know his quirks, his moods, the subtle signs that tell me when he’s about to spike a fever or when he’s hurting. I’ve spent years learning him in ways that go unnoticed by many, and I use that knowledge to advocate for him in every possible way.

I am also a person with my own dreams, my own history. I studied Anthropology and Archaeology. I once dreamed of working at a museum. I am a wife, a friend, a daughter, a sister. I love reading, dancing, and singing loudly in the car. I laugh, I cry, I dream, I struggle, and I celebrate.

I am all of these things. Most importantly, I am the mother of TWO incredible children. And so, in case it wasn’t clear—Hi. My name is Dianely Cabrera. You can call me Dianely. Not “Mom”, but Dianely.