It has been nine months since I lost my mother.

Nine months since pancreatic cancer took the woman who had been here for seventy-six years—my mother, my creator, my protector, my best friend.

And somehow, nine months feels like enough time to finally say some of this out loud.

Sort of.

I think I’m finally comfortable admitting that I can talk about it. Maybe not comfortably, exactly. But enough to put the words somewhere other than inside my own head.

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything, and this is long overdue.

So here I am.

Writing about the last few days I had with my mom.

There was so much love. So much of it.

And at the same time, I watched my mother die.

I watched her lose weight. I watched food become something her body could no longer tolerate, even when she wanted to eat. I watched pain take over a woman who had spent her entire life in motion.

The pain she was in made me so upset that, at times, I distanced myself from her.

Not because I didn’t love her.

Because I loved her so much that I didn’t know how to stand there and watch.

The strongest woman I had ever known was becoming weak. Her body was failing her, and she was fighting so damn hard.

And I was doing everything I could not to completely lose my mind.

I say that lightly because, honestly, I was distraught. Overwhelmed. Terrified.

A day and a half before she died, I ended up in a psychiatric ward. 

And because of that, I wasn’t by my mother’s side like I had promised her I would be.

That is something I will carry with me forever.

Cancer took my mother from me, and I’m angry.

I’m fucking angry.

I’m angry at cancer.

I’m angry at the doctors.

I’m angry at the promises that were made and the hope that was given when, perhaps, there was never enough certainty behind either.

My mother was an active woman. She never stopped moving. She was always doing something for someone she loved. She took care of everyone else before she ever thought about taking care of herself.

And then came aggressive chemotherapy.

Her body was reduced to ninety-five pounds.

Her bones became so fragile that she dislocated her hip.

Sometimes I think the cancer was only one part of what was killing her.

The treatment was killing her, too.

And I hate that I have to say that.

For as long as I can remember, my mother was always moving. Always doing. Always giving.

She could accomplish more in a day than most people could accomplish in a week.

I wish I had some of that in me now.

Instead, I feel destroyed.

I have no energy.

My body hurts.

My heart hurts.

And my brain still lives somewhere between reality and denial.

Sometimes I still expect the phone to ring.

Isn’t that something we all take for granted?

That little screen lighting up.

Your mother’s name.

Her voice on the other end.

I would give anything to hear it one more time.

Just once.

I want her to call me and tell me she loves me so I can tell her she is loved one hundred million times more.

I wish I had told her sooner how much I appreciated her.

I wish I had thanked her for every sacrifice she made for me.

Because if it weren’t for her, I would have missed out on some of the most incredible, once-in-a-lifetime experiences of my life.

But that’s the beautiful part.

I did get to experience them with her.

We made those memories together.

I just wish they didn’t end so quickly.

I think about the things she won’t get to see.

She won’t be at my wedding.

She won’t meet my children.

She won’t see the person I’ve become.

And sometimes, that thought is enough to make the back of my throat tighten until it becomes difficult to breathe.

No one really prepares you for what grief does to your body.

Or your mind.

Or your sense of time.

There is the stress.

The physical exhaustion.

The psychological changes.

And then there are those three horrible words that seem to follow you everywhere:

Should have.

Could have.

Would have.

Should I have called her more?

Could I have spent more time with her?

Would things have been different if I had made different choices?

You replay everything.

You search through memories like there must be some hidden answer buried inside them.

You find regrets.

You find lost time.

You realize how disengaged you had become from family, from people, sometimes even from yourself.

And eventually you understand something you thought you already knew:

You think you have time.

And then, suddenly, you don’t.

Time is an illusion.

My time with my mother was too short.

But she taught me so much.

And the older I get, the more I realize just how much of her lives inside me.

Sometimes I look at myself and see her.

We even passed for sisters.

I will never forget the things she taught me—the good, the bad, the beautiful, the painful.

Because at the end of the day, she was my mother.

My creator.

My first home.

And, after a lot of growing up on my part, my best friend.

I eventually got my act together.

I showed her that I was going to be okay.

And honestly?

I think that may be the greatest gift I ever gave her.

I know she’s proud of me.

I can hear her saying it.

I just wish I could have given her that vacation she always wanted.

I wish I had taken her to an Adele concert.

I wish I had more time.

I wish I could tell her how much I miss her.

How much I love her.

How much I always will.

I gave that woman hell when I was younger.

I was wild. I made mistakes. I made choices that hurt her.

And still, she showed up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

That’s what mothers do.

They love you through the versions of yourself you’re not proud of.

She never stopped showing me that she loved me.

And even though I believe she’s still with me—watching over me, protecting me, sending me little reminders that she’s here—no one prepared me for the cruelest part.

I will never see her face again.

Not in this life.

We will never laugh together again.

We will never cry together again.

We will never bicker over something stupid again.

And there are so many things you do with your mother before anyone else in the world.

She’s woven into the fabric of who I am.

She’s ingrained in my soul.

Thankfully, I saved dozens of her voicemails.

Thank God.

Because although I can still hear her voice in my head, I know there will never again be a day when I pick up my phone and hear her on the other end.

I had a wisdom tooth pulled a couple of weeks ago.

And honestly?

The extraction hurt.

But the thought that my mother wasn’t going to be there to take care of me the way she always had somehow hurt more.

That’s grief.

It’s the strangest thing.

It’s not just missing someone.

It’s missing the way the world felt when they were still in it.

Another thing people don’t tell you about grief is that it is a rollercoaster.

You don’t just move through five neat stages and come out the other side.

At least, I haven’t.

For a while, I felt nothing.

I was numb.

There was disbelief.

Then there were days when I laughed.

And immediately felt guilty.

How could I be happy?

How could I find joy when my mother was gone?

But I’ll tell you something I’ve learned.

Your mother would want you to be happy.

My mom used to say that, as a mother, she was only as happy as her unhappiest child.

So be happy.

I’m trying, Mom.

I really am.

Remember when I mentioned time?

I’m still thinking about it.

I miss doing everything with her.

The conversations.

The hugs.

The kisses.

The little arguments.

The things I didn’t appreciate enough while they were happening.

Even the things I couldn’t admit I needed.

I miss all of it.

And this blog is going to be my way of talking about what comes next.

Not because I have figured grief out.

I haven’t.

Not even close.

But because maybe someone else is sitting somewhere right now feeling exactly the way I do.

Maybe someone just lost their mother.

Maybe they’re watching their parent fight cancer.

Maybe they’re angry.

Maybe they’re numb.

Maybe they’re guilty because they laughed today.

Maybe they’re searching for signs because they’re not ready to let go.

I understand that.

I am that person.

So this blog will be part diary, part journey, and maybe, hopefully, part guide.

I’ll talk about the things I experience as I navigate life after my mother’s death—the grief, the memories, the spiritual signs, the animals that seem to appear at just the right moment, the angel numbers I keep seeing: 444, 1111, 111, 222, 333.

Maybe they’re coincidences.

Maybe they’re something more.

I don’t know.

But when something catches my attention and makes me feel, even for a moment, like my mother is trying to communicate with me, I’m going to pay attention.

Because I’m not ready to let go.

And maybe I never will.

Perhaps letting go isn’t actually the goal.

Perhaps we simply learn how to carry someone differently.

My life has been a journey.

There have been beautiful moments.

There have been painful ones.

There have been mistakes, heartbreak, laughter, love, loss, and everything in between.

Maybe that’s what life is.

One imperfect moment leading us to the next.

One happy snapshot.

Then another.

And another.

And maybe the trick is learning to appreciate the picture while we’re still standing inside it.

I’m an open book.

I want to talk about the things people don’t always talk about.

I want to support anyone who has lost a parent.

Anyone who is watching a parent battle cancer.

Anyone who is terrified of what comes next.

And if something I write helps even one person feel a little less alone, then maybe all of this pain can become something useful.

Because I can’t talk about this with just anyone.

But maybe I can talk about it here.

Maybe you can, too.

And maybe, somewhere along the way, we’ll help each other heal.

I don’t know where this journey is going.

But I’m here.

I’m writing.

I’m remembering.

I’m grieving.

I’m learning how to live in a world without my mother.

And I’m carrying her with me every step of the way.

I love you, Mom.

I miss you every single day.

And I will never stop.

Health and happiness to you and the people you love.

And please—

tell them you love them while you still have time.

Xoxo,

E