I originally wrote this November 10th, 2018. It’s been edited since, but for the most part, this is what I wanted to say then and couldn’t. Because what I was saying it for wasn’t supposed to be about me and my grief. So I tucked it away and told myself when I was ready to talk about losing my mom, I’d edit it and post it here in this blog, where I feel free to lay myself bare.
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When my mom passed away on November 8th, 2018, I wasn’t prepared.
When I say my mom was a warrior woman, people think I’m exaggerating. It’s okay, I don’t blame them. Because honestly, I didn’t know what it took to be a warrior until I saw my mom get diagnosed with breast cancer. You see, she knew about the lump in her breast for years before she had it checked out. She knew what it was, she knew it was bad, but they didn’t have insurance, and she had things she still wanted to do. She didn’t want it to slow her down.
Of course, she didn’t tell us about it, knowing we would worry and insist on her getting it taken care of. And more than anything, my mom did not want us to worry about her. She didn’t want the sympathy or the fear, because she knew it was all going to be okay. She had faith. Wait. No, that’s wrong. She didn’t have faith. That’s no where close to her absolute, unshakable trust she had in God to get her through this. She didn’t believe in Him. She knew it. Knew He would protect her.
In February of 2014, the oncologist told her she had breast cancer. I sat next to her and took notes as the doctor explained the treatments and procedures she’d need to go through over the next year to rid her body of this disease. Months of chemo. A year of being poked and prodded. A mastectomy. Months of daily radiation. And when we got out to my car, she looked me in the eye and told me not to worry. The doctors may be telling her she had cancer, but she didn’t believe it. She told me she didn’t want to hear that word, ever, and she asked me to be the guardian, to make sure no one said that word near her or about her. She believed it had too much negative energy attached to it, and she only wanted to focus on the positive. Then she told me one of the most positive things about this, was that it was happening to her, and not one of us. Not one of her grandbabies. And after every life-draining chemo treatment, this woman would get in my car and we’d happy dance the whole way home because it was one more treatment over with.
November 2014, she finished the last radiation treatment, wrapping up 5 treatments a week, over the last 7 weeks. And she was given a certificate telling her she was officially cancer free. Neither of us left our houses for weeks. I was exhausted from 11 months of being on top of every treatment, procedure, test, appointment, follow up, scan, diet, blood work, size, medication, weight, mood, attitude, change. I had two teenage daughters, one just starting cross-country and driver’s ed, the other just starting her first job that I needed to stay on top of, with homework, who was where when, and where I needed to be at what time. That year, I had two books published, my first two books, with a big-name publisher. I’d still had a house to run, bills to pay, groceries to buy, animals to take care of, birthdays, holidays, friends, and a nearly full-time heavy-labor job for a caterer.
Mom…well, I was just the chauffeur. Mom was the warrior woman, who never stopped smiling, who never thought about quitting, who never, ever asked “Why me?”
Then, less than two years after being declared cancer-free, this horrible disease came back with a vengeance. We were told there was no getting rid of it this time. We could hold it at bay, but only for so long, because it would eventually take her life. She didn’t hesitate. Even after everything she’d been through all ready, it never occurred to her to do anything other than fight. Through all of this, I broke down a million times. I locked myself in my bedroom so many times, so exhausted and emotionally wrung out from the endless appointments, procedures, and tests, that tears and helpless rage would threaten to topple me. I isolated myself from the world, because it was the only way I knew how to protect myself from the overwhelming huge-ness of it all. This was MY MOM. No one should have to fight this hard, this long, on so many different levels while knowing it was a losing battle.
But do you know how many times I saw my mom cry in almost 5 years?
Twice.
Once after her metastasized diagnosis, and then the day I had to tell her it was time for hospice. Can you imagine the kind of strength that took? To face every day knowing your fight was ultimately going to be not enough, and this disease would eventually win? Here’s the truly amazing thing about my mom, though. What was happening in her body was never her primary concern. She didn’t care about the disease. She didn’t care that there was an end- date already slapped on her, given to her by the doctors. Not my mom. All of that was just background noise. What did concern her, though were things that she could take care of. Us. She’d beaten this disease once and was able to be there for the birth of her first great grandchild. Then there was the time she was close to giving up, so exhausted and weak she couldn’t get out of bed, and we didn’t think she’d make it another month. But then she got the phone call that her grandson was in the emergency room having seizures. The idea that she couldn’t jump up and get to the hospital to be there with him was unthinkable to her, so she lifted her chin, straightened her metaphorical crown, and went to freaking war to get her strength back. We had her for two more years after that. I can’t tell you how many times we rushed her to the hospital, sure this was the end. Once with blood oxygen at 30%, and so weak she couldn’t speak. She hadn’t been able to eat in a month, and we didn’t think she’d make it through the night. But six weeks later she was WALKING into her oncologist appointment like a goddamn warrior.
Last May, Mom lost her fine motor skills and started becoming confused, and we had her admitted to the hospital. The next day, the hospital doctor pulled me aside to tell me there was nothing left to do. It was time for hospice. I told my dad and my sisters, but Dad opted against telling my mom. She wanted to fight, she wasn’t ready to quit, and he wasn’t going to defeat her.
A month later, the oncologist called me to tell me she saw no need for hospice at any point in the near future. Her weakness and confusion were caused by the steroids she’d been on for the brain radiation, and her body was just de-conditioned. She told me not to worry, we had plenty of time left with her.
That’s when I realized just how much of a warrior my mom was. Because I didn’t know it was possible to possess that much strength, even after watching her find an inner strength I hadn’t known was possible a hundred times before. She went back to physical and occupational therapy, determined to walk again. She wanted to be able to chase her great-granddaughter around the house, and get on the floor to play with her.
If anyone could do it at that point, it was my mom.
But six weeks later, the oncologist called again. This time, the news wasn’t bad–it was devastating. The brain tumors had grown, one on each of the major lobes, and there was nothing left to do but hospice. She asked to see Mom one more time, to answer any questions Mom had.
We sat in that room, my older sister, my dad, my mom, and I, while the doctor told us we had maybe six months left.
Less than three weeks later, Mom was gone.
I Miss My Mom.
I told myself over and over again that I was the best version of myself right now, and that no matter what, I was going to be okay. You know why? Because no way would my mom have allowed herself to go anywhere until she was damn good and ready. Not when there was still things she needed to do, or thought we needed from her.
So when my heart was breaking, when I felt like I couldn’t survive the pain, I told myself to remember who I was. I was the daughter of a goddamn warrior, and we don’t lose. We don’t go down without a fight. If my mom could pull herself back from the brink of death five times to be there for us when no one would have blamed her for being selfish and giving up, no way would I let the grief destroy me. That wasn’t what she would have wanted. It wasn’t how she lived her life, and it wasn’t what she taught me. She taught me to LIVE. That cancer was just a dirty word when you had faith and determination and strength of will on your side. She wouldn’t want me to curl up and let the grief win. That would be a slap in the face to her spirit. She wanted me to remember her LIFE.
I don’t want to feel like I’m failing her. While we didn’t have time to prepare for how quickly the end would come, I’m not actually sure there would have been any way to prepare. How do you ready yourself for something like losing your mother? But the truth is, I think some days I am failing. I question if I’m still on track to be the person she wanted me to be. I question all of my decisions and actions, because she’s not there for me to just talk to anymore. And nothing feels real any more, because I don’t have her to call and share it with.
But at the same time, it’s so real there are moments when I’m sure I’m not going to survive the pain, that it’s literally going to kill me. My mom is gone. I find myself repeating it, over and over again, like if I say the words enough, I’ll stop forgetting, and it will stop hitting me again, knocking the breath right out of me. Because…yeah. Every once in awhile, I do. I forget. The punk will do something adorable or hilarious or normal and I’ll reach for my phone to video chat her, and remember.
I know I should give some actionable advice. I should give you step-by-step directions on how to deal with the loss of your mom after an illness. But, honestly, I’m still waiting for someone to tell me how to do this, and it’s been four months.
So here’s a small list of Dos and Don’ts I put together for you, or a loved one facing or dealing with the loss of a loved one to a long-term illness.
Dos:
- Be gentle with yourself. The one thing I can say I’ve learned over the last four months is that no one grieves the same. No one has the same relationship with that person as you did, no one has the same memories–good and bad–as you do. So no one is going to deal with it exactly the way you are, and that’s okay. (Do not let anyone convince you you’re grieving ‘wrong’. Tell them to kiss your ass, seriously.)
- Remember that the whole ‘it’ll come in waves’ thing is true–but not at first. No one tells you that at first, there’s no coming and going of the grief, that the pain never freaking ebbs. It’s always there, crushing you. It will start easing at some point, but it won’t be right away. So do whatever you need to do to get through until it does start to ebb a little. Cry if you need to cry. Scream and rage at the nighttime sky. Binge-watch your favorite tear-jerker movies (I recommend Moulin Rouge! for this purpose) or re-watch the entire seven seasons of Parks and Recreation for the tenth time in a row (which is what I’ve been doing for the last two months.) Skip cleaning the house for a few days–then hire a maid. (Again, which is what I’ve done.)
- Do things that make you happy. Or even just hurt less. Go for a walk around the block if you feel up to it. Go to a goat yoga class. Read those stacks of romance books you’ve been adding to for years. (I’ve even got a few lists here to get you started.)
- Consider journaling. Whether Bullet Journals are your thing or you’re looking for an app, getting your thoughts and emotions down will help. It may seem daunting at first, extremely overwhelming, but not only will it help you work through your feelings, it will help you see the progress you’re making over time that you might otherwise miss.
Don’ts:
- Don’t let anyone convince you you’re grieving wrong. Or too long. (What the hell does that even mean?!) Unless you are concerned with your reactions to the situation, no one has the right to tell you how/when/how long to grieve. Shut that crap down immediately. You do not need that added stress in your life at the moment.
- Don’t make any big decisions. No life-altering, savings-account draining, mental health-damaging changes for at least six months. Trust me, you’ll thank me. Because you will find yourself wanting to start overhauling your life at some point, and it’s probably not the best idea to start making those kinds of decisions when your emotions are in such severe upheaval.
- Don’t isolate yourself too much. I’m not saying some isolation can’t be good, even necessary, for your well-being. I’m a big hibernator when I’m dealing with huge emotions and upheavals, but don’t forget how happy things make you outside of your bed or couch. Even if it’s just going out for coffee by yourself, taking your dog to the beach, or meeting friends for dinner. Sometimes, just making my bed feels like such a huge accomplishment, I immediately find the energy to tackle another three or four chores I’d been putting off. Like writing this blog post.
- Don’t forget to talk to the people who care. They may not know exactly what losing a loved one feels like, or exactly how crushing the grief can be at some moments, but those that love you and care want to help you. And talking can be therapeutic, even if you only manage a few words before breaking down in huge, gasping sobs.
- Don’t expect yourself to be ‘over it’ by a certain point. Or compare your grief, or where you’re at in the grieving process, to someone else. Remember that no one grieves the same. There’s no right way to do it.
Do you have any tips or tricks for ‘dealing’ with grief? Do you have an app for journaling or mental health that you swear by? Make sure to tell me in the comments!
Also, don’t forget to visit my Pinterest profile and follow me for more articles and links to dealing with grief and depression.
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