It’s Been A Year It’s Been A Lifetime

A year ago today I lost my mom to cancer. I’m not sure what to say. Some days it feels like a life time ago. Some days it feels like it was yesterday. There are still things that trigger the reminder of the loss. There’s now a whole in my life where she used to be. The hardest part is not being able to share the joy of her granddaughter with her. She’s not there for me to ask for advice. My mom was the person I would go to who would listen about all of the mundane things in my life. She was always proud of me, even when I may not have made the best choices.

I lost my job three months ago and have felt lost. I long for the days where we would have met for lunch to talk it all out. Even when I didn’t know who I was, or where I was going, she knew who I was. I was her son. She was my mom. Today I’m still her son, and she’s still my mom, but she’s not here. I can’t call her. I can’t hear her voice. I can’t feel her touch.

My mom died twice. She died once the day we got the diagnosis of stage 4 breast cancer. She was never the same after that. No one talks about that part. There’s a profound change in some people. You hear about people who say they’d quit their job and travel if they found out. No one talks about the people who don’t do that. We’re all silent when it comes to those that struggle with the existential dread that is incurable cancer. The fear took over. The regrets and the sadness of knowing she wouldn’t be there with me any more. This wasn’t a quick death that steals people away. This was a marathon of doctors visits, good news, bad news, ER visits, and then a slow decline, followed by a sudden quick shift to a lifeless bedridden body empty of the energy that touched so many.

I’ve seen parts of my mom that I didn’t know were possible. Her personality shifted so dramatically that she no longer felt like my mom. The woman I loved so dearly, that unknowingly kept me from killing myself, became someone else. The depression went unacknowledged for a long time. By the time she wanted to talk I couldn’t handle who she was. We never made it to the groups. It hurts me to think that I couldn’t make the time. The person that was always there for me, and I couldn’t be there for her. She wasn’t my “mom” anymore. She was someone else at that point. Is this just what I’m telling myself in a veiled attempt to feel better that we didn’t go talk to the counselors? It is and it isn’t.

I won’t pretend to understand what she felt or went through emotionally in having to try and comprehend what it was going to be like to die. That’s a bit of existential dread that even I can’t touch. Her frail poisoned body was unable to hold her granddaughter. She did get to meet her. I had planned on bringing her granddaughter by once more, but the cancer took her consciousness before I got the chance.

My mom died surrounded by my dad, her best friend, her best friend’s husband, and me. We held her hands and whispered how much we loved her. In those last moments she was so weak the only way I knew she was alive was by watching her pulse in her neck. Then it stopped. 6 long days of bedside vigil were over with one last beat of her heart and one faint breath. The train had stopped. We’d reached the final station.

In reality the rest of us boarded another train with another unknown destination. This time the train stopped unexpectedly to remind you that she was gone. First stop was realizing you can’t ask her for help with your daughter. Other stops were the funeral home, therapy sessions, and the randomness of a world that reminds you she is gone. The grief shows up with no warning. You’re left raw and empty all over again, a shell of who you once were. You can never be that person again. You become someone else.

There are so many moments that I let slip by during the 3 and a half years she battled. Lost lunches due to covid. Working while at her bedside to avoid the reality that she was dying. Time spent away for so many other stupid reasons. None of this time can be gotten back. There are no more “I love yous”. There are no more hugs. There are no more conversations where she’ll respond. She’ll never tell you it’ll be ok again. I won’t ever be completely whole again. There’s always going to be a part of me that is gone. I will keep her memory close, but she is gone. Mom - I miss you so much. I love you so much. You’re the reason I’m still here. The last thing you said to me is “What are you doing here”. Mom I wouldn’t have been anywhere else but at your side. Thank you for being such an amazing woman. I don’t have the vocabulary to truly tell you what you mean to me. It’s been a year. It’s been a lifetime.