On July 25th, 2019, we lost my Mother to Lung Cancer.
If this comes as a shock to anyone who knows me, it’s because I simply couldn’t talk about it. I’ve lost people in the past, and it’s hurt, but I’ve never experienced grief like this before in my life, and It’s been unbearable in so many ways that I’m only just now discovering.
The first week after my Mum passed, I was in shock. It had been a whirlwind 5 weeks previously, with mum having a series of stokes that were later attributed to late stage lung cancer that was just discovered. She seemed to be on the road to recovery from the strokes when 10 days later, she had what the doctors believed to be another massive stroke.
Immediately, she went from being mobile and speaking, to paralyzed along her right hand side, unable to walk and to speak or swallow on her own. She was still conscious – she was still Mum, but now she was essentially trapped inside of her own body, able to communicate only with simple hand gestures, and facial expressions, when she wasn’t too tired.
I spent every day over the 5 weeks that we had with her, in the hospital. I watched my Mother – a person who I love without equal, die over the course of those 5 weeks.
I’m not going to say that I didn’t allow myself to feel over those 5 weeks, but I tried my hardest to focus on the facts of the matter, so that I could be there for my Mum when she couldn’t speak for herself. My Dad, my Brother and I were powerless to do anything to save my Mum, but still we stayed with her, held her hand, talked to her when she was awake, and tried to make her as comfortable as possible during the time that she had left.
I couldn’t cry for the first 2 weeks after she passed. I was sad, and upset, but it didn’t exactly feel real. I knew that I needed to be gentle with my feelings, and that I needed time to heal, but I had no idea what that really meant until now.
Day to day things are the same as they were before, I haven’t lived with my Mother in years, but it’s during odd tasks when I’ll suddenly find myself completely overcome with emotion, and I have to stop and check myself before I completely break down. Doing completely mundane things: Cooking, cleaning, shopping, even when I’m procrastinating. I can hear her voice in the back of my head, saying something to me about how I’ve always been a terrible house keeper (I’ve never cleaned as often or as well as she would have liked) or to save my money when I’m looking at some stupid thing in the store, and to quit putting something off so long. Snippets of conversations that we’ve had over the years, things that made me laugh, and roll my eyes so hard I was sure they would get stuck in the back of my skull. Mum things.
I feel the void that her presents once filled now, more acutely than I’ve ever felt any sort of loss in my life before.
I’ve known many people over the years who have lost those that they loved, and I’ve always struggled with finding the right words to express my sorrow for them, and always found myself severely lacking. I think the reason why, is because of this. I’d never experienced this form of loss before, and it’s simply not something that can be explained in words, it’s something that must be felt.
Loss is empty, and it is silent.
Friends and loved ones ask if there is anything that they can do for you, and the honest answer is no. Just be there. Knowing that people you love and care about, love and care for you enough to let you know is a balm, and touchstone when you cannot control the pain from rising up unexpectedly.
I’ve appreciated each and every kind word that was sent to me from those that did know about my Mother’s passing, and I’ve treasured all of them, even if I didn’t have the strength to respond back.
My Mum was a pretty private person, who didn’t really believe in social media, but her passing isn’t some sort of secret, just a difficult truth that must be accepted. This is my acceptance.
In a lot of ways, I feel like I’ve only just started to grieve, started to realize what my life will be like now that she’s gone, and I’m finding that it’s a little less full.
I will be forever grateful for the fact that I always made time for her when she asked, that I spent as much time with her as I could, that I always called her when something happened in my life, and that I reminded myself to always treasure the time I had with her. It’s the reality of being a child, of knowing that one day your parents will be gone. It’s that same reasoning that made me glad to spend each day that she was in the hospital with her. It may not have been quality time in some senses of the expression, but it was important, because I knew that it was no less than what she would have done for me, and how could I have looked myself in the mirror for doing any less for this woman who did so much for me.
I don’t regret the time I spent with my Mum, I treasure each and every moment, because it was time spent with her. Whether we were yelling at each other, or she was getting me drunk on homemade wine, she was my Mum, and I’ll never stop missing or loving her.
So now I want to thank you. Thank you for reading this. It’s long, and in every way that counts, this is for me, a way to express something that I’ve had such difficulties with up until now. Thank you for allowing me to leave this here.
Thank you for being kind. Whether it be words or texts, or even just with your presents, whether you knew about my Mum or not, I appreciate you. I don’t have a ton of friends, but the ones that I have are of the highest caliber, and I would be nothing in life if it weren’t for you, and in case I don’t say it enough: I love you.

