scijessreads

I’ve been adding to the list of Taylor Swift songs that have made me cry in the car. Bigger than the Whole Sky. Never Grow Up. Soon You’ll get Better. Marjorie. They’ve always been sad, but now they settle in my chest like an ache. Digging in with words that pierce through the cloud of numbness and force me to confront a new truth that I never wanted to hear.

Death and taxes. The two things that are constant in life. Or at least said to be. Things we know in abstract, but don’t often sit with until we have no other choice. Right now, I am sitting with the idea of death. Of loss. Of becoming untethered.

I should have known, or at least been more prepared. But I didn’t have the whole picture of things until it was too late and already at the end. Last winter, mom said that they had found more spots on her scans, but were going to try a new chemo. This sounded perfectly reasonable, as it has happened a couple of times since her initial breast cancer diagnosis 30 years ago. She started on it in March. It was rough, making her tired and not able to do everything she normally would. But she was optimistic. Making plans for a trip she wanted to take next year to walk part of the Camino del Santiago. Happy that I would be coming out in May since I had to miss Christmas.

In May, I called one weekend and things sounded different. She was more depressed and anxious. She did not sound good, her voice had lost its lightness. She wasn’t able to move much on her own anymore, dad had to help her everywhere. She was tired of being stuck in bed or on the couch. For a woman who was always on the go, this was not good for her mental health. And it sounded like it was finally getting to her.

The week I was supposed to visit, she ended up in the hospital. Instead of driving out, I took a one-way flight to get there as soon as I could. My mom, who was my rock and anchor and always there to help anyone, looked frail. Thinner. Tired.

It was then that I learned just how much things had progressed. Cancer had metastasized to her liver and was growing faster than the chemo could help. And the chemo was also damaging her liver as well. The worst of a Catch-22. In a hospital room surrounded by family and doctors (all of whom, and all of the nurses as well, were amazing with her and our family), we had to make a decision that none of us wanted to, but also knew would be the best for how things were.

After 1 week in the hospital and about a week and a half in hospice care (again, and amazing place with staff and nurses that were so good to us and mom), my mom died. No longer in pain, but also no longer here. And that is part that will hurt for the rest of my life.

No more random phone call when driving. Nor more texts when she was out at the store and saw something I might like. No more voicemails that start with “hey hunny bunny.” No more hugs that feel like you’re being wrapped in love that won’t let go. No more FaceTime calls from her garden. No more random care packages just because. No more “I have an idea” or “I have a plan.” No more beach trips and road trips and wandering down the side roads just to see what was there.

My mom was a mom for everyone. She was there whenever you needed her to be. She taught me how to figure things out on my own, but also know that I could ask for help if I needed it. She was a friend. She had faith and conviction and to the end was reminding us all to be kind and love one another.

She touched the lives of so many. Her memory is a blessing, but right now it is also a reminder that she is no longer a phone call away.

In recent weeks I’ve kept busy and focused on helping my dad, sorting through things, and dealing with paperwork (the paperwork of death is not for the faint of heart). But in the quiet moments, when I find a photo or read a note, it hits hard. I have to blink away tears in a parking lot. Try not to choke up when talking to a friend. I can’t make myself listen back to save voicemails to hear her voice because I know I’ll absolutely lose it.

I thought we had more time. But we truly never know how much time we have at all.

Time is beautiful, and it is also the enemy. Silent and biding.

I can only hope I am half the woman my mom raised me to be.