A goodbye we were never ready for.
The first time I learned that life could change in a single moment, I was twenty-one years old.
My parents gathered all three of their daughters together because they had something important to tell us. They wanted us to hear it at the same time. They didn't want one of us finding out before the others.
That was how my mom told us she had breast cancer.
I still remember the fear of that moment.
There were tears.
There were questions.
There was so much uncertainty.
My mom was only fifty-two years old.
At twenty-one, fifty-two seemed far too young to be facing cancer. She was my mother. She was supposed to be there. She was supposed to watch us grow, celebrate our milestones, and eventually watch her grandchildren grow up.
The future we had imagined suddenly felt uncertain.
I remember taking my mom to her first chemotherapy appointment. As she sat there receiving treatment, she kept repeating the same words:
"They're pumping poison into me."
And in many ways, she was right.
We understood that the treatment was meant to save her, but there was something heartbreaking about watching someone you love endure something so difficult in the hope that it would give them more time.
I was there when she went for her wig fitting.
That day is something I will never forget.
At some point during the appointment, my mom decided she didn't want to wait for her hair to fall out. She wanted to have her head shaved.
We cried the entire time.
It was one of those moments when the reality of what was happening became impossible to ignore.
Cancer was no longer just a word.
It was happening to my mom.
Eventually, the chemotherapy ended, and slowly, healing began.
For nine years, her cancer was in remission.
Nine precious years.
We were given time.
Time to move forward.
Time to live.
Time to create more memories.
But then the cancer returned.
This time, my mom made a decision that was difficult for everyone.
She did not want to go through chemotherapy again.
Most of us respected her decision, even though it was incredibly painful. My oldest sister struggled the most. She wanted my mom to try everything possible. She wanted more treatment, more options, more time.
She wasn't ready to lose her.
None of us were.
But my mom was tired.
She had spent her life caring for others.
She had been a nurse.
She had been a mother.
She had been the person everyone turned to.
And now she wanted peace.
My mom had goals she wanted to reach before she left us.
She wanted to live until my sister's fortieth birthday. That milestone was important to her.
She also wanted to make it to sixty-five so she could collect Old Age Security.
That milestone never came.
She did make it to my sister's birthday.
A few days later, she was admitted to the hospice unit.
And that began one of the hardest months our family has ever experienced.
Waiting for someone you love to die is a pain that is difficult to describe.
There is no clear moment to prepare for.
There is no way to know exactly when goodbye will come.
You simply wait.
You visit.
You hope.
You cry.
My oldest daughter was five years old and in kindergarten.
My middle daughter was almost one.
I was still a daughter who needed her mother, but I was also a mother trying to care for my own children.
My mom was the heart of our family.
She was the person who held everyone together.
Her sister came from California to support both my mom and my dad during those final weeks.
I remember my uncle coming to say goodbye.
When he left the hospital, he was in tears.
That image has stayed with me.
Because even people who knew it was coming were not prepared for what it meant.
When the end was near, we all gathered at the hospital.
We sat together.
We held her.
We loved her.
But I wasn't ready.
I wasn't anywhere near ready.
My mom died three weeks before my daughter's first birthday.
I remember thinking about my children.
My five-year-old needed her grandmother.
My one-year-old would never remember her.
And my son wouldn't even be born for another five years.
There were so many moments my mom was supposed to be there for.
So many memories we were supposed to make.
And suddenly, she was gone.
Our family was heartbroken.
My dad never truly recovered from losing her.
Her death changed all of us.
It changed our family.
It changed the way we saw the future.
It left a space that could never be filled.
As I write this, twenty-eight years later, tears are still streaming down my face.
That tells me something.
It tells me that love doesn't have an expiration date.
Grief doesn't follow a schedule.
And the people we love continue to shape us, even after they're gone.
My mom was a nurse.
She was a caregiver.
She spent her life taking care of other people.
She deserved so many more years than she was given.
She deserved to see her grandchildren grow.
She deserved more birthdays.
She deserved more time.
But what she gave us in the years she had was immeasurable.
She gave us love.
She gave us strength.
She gave us a family built around caring for one another.
A thought to take with you
Is there someone you've lost whose love still shows up in the person you are today?
What part of them do you still carry with you?
Something come to mind?
If you'd like to share it, I'd love to hear what this story made you think about.