My mom, Michelle, passed away on June 2, 2021, after a long and tolling battle with cancer. One of many qualities she passed down to me was the need to think out loud. Talking (and often writing) through my thoughts is the best way I know how to truly form and understand them, which is what I've done in multiple formats throughout this difficult season. From the copious discussions my family had in the hospital with each new update and all the phone calls I made and texts I sent while pacing halls and sidewalks; to my last moments with her and the careful deliberation and stress that went into planning her memorial; as well as the many heart-to-hearts with family and friends and recently-begun therapy sessions since; and every hastily typed out note saved on my phone between: all my thoughts and worries and conclusions have been snowballing. So, the following is my attempt to pack it all together and let it take up some space somewhere outside of my head. It's deeply personal, but also kind of personally therapeutic, and so I hope it encourages anyone else reading this to find some introspection on their own grieving processes or other struggles.
My mom's passing was a natural disaster in every sense. It was an inevitable, but no less shocking and devasting event that has caused lasting damage. The recovery efforts will never end, but will supposedly get easier with time.
She had just over 55.5 years on this planet, and 25 of which were spent being my mom. The best mom. She deserved so much more than the five-plus years of health battles that she had to fight and the near week of pain and painful goodbyes that followed her eventual surrender. Throughout it all, she was such a positive shining light, and she held onto that much longer can most people reasonably could. She had patiently waited out so many other storms (bad news that came sometimes in drizzles and other times in severe downpours) hoping for a rainbow, only to face a flash flood of the worst possible news.
All the things she was looking forward to, she was told she would have to miss out on – and we were told we'd have to miss her. And yet, she surprised us (and I think herself, too) when she announced she wasn't all that afraid of the big, final storm to come. Of course, there were brief moments of disappointment, denial, and worry in her final days, which made the entire situation all the more devastating, but her kind of strength doesn't dissipate easily and her overall acceptance was just another example of her incredible power. It helped our family move through the grieving process and somewhat better prepare.
I'd liken this experience to (what I imagine) it's like being warned that you're in the path of a hurricane and you don't quite have enough time to evacuate: you buy supplies and devise a plan, call your loved ones, get to the safest place you can, and wait for it to made landfall. Akin to increased ocean swell, barometric pressure drops, and increasing wind speeds and rainfall (I'm from the Midwest, I googled "warning signs of hurricanes"), there were telling signs of my mom's decline, like dropping blood pressure, supplemented by doctors' conclusions and hospice nurses' input. It still felt sudden and fast-moving, of course, but we were able to spend time with her, get her as comfortable as we could, and somewhat help her and ourselves get ready for what was to come.
Although, like hurricanes and cancer, grief is said to be five stages, I believe you can never really be fully prepared for any of them. Grief, in particular, is very complex: it can intensify and weaken, moving forward and backward through the stages based on any number of triggers. I was able to get started on the process a bit early (I had been anxious about the possibility of this big storm ever since my mom's first diagnosis in 2015), but anger, denial, bargaining, depression, and acceptance each have taken multiple turns – mostly revolving around the fact that I had to say goodbye to my mom.
Although you expect to only have to say it once, I actually lost count of how many times my mom and I exchanged our goodbyes. I made an effort to say 'I love you' every time I left her room (the doctors kept telling us her passing could potentially happen at any time); and every night when visiting hours ended I treated it like our last goodbye. Many times, when she was really sleepy or medicated as things got worse, she also would randomly say "bye" or "see you later" and wave. While this was a mentally unnerving routine that honestly didn't make it any easier or less surreal when she ultimately really left – in the middle of the night with only my dad asleep on the couch in her hospice room – I do feel lucky I was afforded that many goodbyes, since not everyone gets that.
Regardless, my mom was a force to be reckoned with – her strength and will seemed so constant and indestructible – and so losing her has completely shaken my entire perspective.
More than anyone else throughout my life, she was always there to listen when I was sad or stressed, celebrate when I had good news, give advice or a hug when I needed it. Every birthday, graduation, big moment she would tell me how much she loved me and was proud of me. She did everything for me and my family, and in the wake of this storm we're all left a bit displaced.
I'm also left thinking about all the missed time. When I moved out at the beginning of 2020, she hid her personal disappointment (terribly) to congratulate me for achieving that milestone. The pandemic obviously kept me from spending as much time with her as I planned to ease that transition, but she still always got the play-by-play of every new recipe I tried, every new furniture purchase I overthought, every funny Archie (my dog) story I had to tell her. About a month before she went into the hospital, she was able to see our new apartment/neighborhood that we ended up in, sit at our new table I snagged for a bargain, and give us some more plants, as well as get an actual hug from me. I haven't been able to give her any updates these past three months.
I always valued her opinion, even when I didn't always agree. In her final days, among other weird questions I never thought I'd have to ask my own mother, I had to make sure what she wanted done with her remains after she passed away (donate what could be, the rest cremated). Other things I had really wanted to get her opinion on, but ultimately decided I shouldn't burden her with, were: what she wanted to be written in her death notice (I ended up borrowing from different examples online to try to capture her life as best as I could) and the planning of her memorial service (decided to host it at one of her favorite nature centers, with her favorite flowers and certain touches I think she would've really liked, where so many loved ones came to celebrate her life). Even writing this, I wonder what she would think about my sharing. And now I'm never able to ask for her input again, only left with memories and the practiced ability to guess what she would say.
I do have audio of her saying "I love you" in the hospital, because I was worried I'd eventually forget the sound of her voice. I hope that doesn't actually end up being the case. Since she passed, I've only been able to listen to it once.
I'm sad knowing that I don't really have that many recent photos of or with my mom. I think the most recent one I have is one from of her birthday last year, of her, my sister, and I. She was so conscious of how she looked – she didn't like looking sick, especially in times where she felt relatively okay – and so really none of my family members have photos with her, aside from special occasions, like holidays or graduations. Actually, one of my favorite photos of her is from my graduation ceremony in 2018, before her second cancer diagnosis; despite the grey hairs that had come in over the prior years, she looks so healthy and happy. She kept telling me how proud she was of me that day, and how shocked she was at how fast time had flown by that her first-born was a college grad. Because most photos we have of her are from years ago, this is the photo I ended up cropping that to be framed for next to her urn.
My mom was the first person I called after every step in the process of securing my new job earlier this year. I wasn't able to call her to tell her about my recent promotion. I told my boyfriend, called my dad, and then balled.
Every beautiful, sunny day feels a bit overcast.
What bothers me most is thinking about all the things she won't be here to experience. There won't be a day that goes by that I won't think about her or miss her. I miss her telling me about her day, telling her about mine, just hearing her voice.
I know she's still with me and my family, just in a different way. Reminding myself that is what will help make moving forward possible.
I hope to eventually get to a point in which, when I think about her, I'm less sad and more happy and thankful for the time I had with her.
There are so many things I want to see, try, enjoy, accomplish. So many ways I'll try to look towards the light like she did so well.
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