I’m going to talk about grief for a bit so if you are looking for uplifting, inspirational quotes and “it will all be okay” nomenclatures then you may want to look elsewhere today. This is a personal story about my mom and I share it to help others who can’t conceive the unthinkable to recognize there is hope on the other side.
I was 26 when my mom died. She was, without a doubt, the foundation of my entire being. Not only was she my guiding light on all things, my best friend, and at times my conscience; she had a class about her that was difficult to capture in a description. She genuinely had passion for growing and developing others (through Junior Achievement as well as professionally.) She was thoughtful, allowed you to think for yourself all the while helping you see multiple paths and ways to achieve them. She was beautiful and strong, she didn’t back down from challenges and she always seemed to know when it was the right time to hold her tongue and the right time to fight for what she believed was right. She had grit.
My mom, Becki, was diagnosed on Aug 2, 2006 with breast cancer. At the time the only person I had ever known that had cancer was my grandfather, who had passed away in 1997. I felt like it was an immediate death sentence for her too. I felt helpless and really didn’t know what I could do to learn more or to help her. I started researching breast cancer (Fun Fact Alert: there are three main types of breast cancer ductal carcinoma in situ, invasive ductal carcinoma, and invasive lobular carcinoma.) The research only scared me more. I was working for an amazing company (still employed) and was able to work out a system where, through using 3 companies, enough support was transitioned around that I could go work from the office closest to my mom for 12 weeks following a double mastectomy in September of that year. Treatments have changed over the years and the procedures have become less invasive and don’t always include 100 staples from armpit to armpit across what was your chest. It was during recovery from that survey that I really started to see just how strong my mom was.
If you have ever been a caretaker for someone following a major surgery then you know there are a few different types of patients or maybe just different stages. The first, don’t want you there at all, feel ashamed they need help and resent you. The second accept the assistance because they physically have no other choice but they may hold resentment and shame but are grateful. The third, welcome the company, take advantage of the support and may prolong the healing process in order to continue the bond. My mom fell, for the most part, into the second category. She hated not being able to do things on her own but would ask for help when needed. She battled through the post op, chemo and radiation like a champ and she was was listed as cancer free, in remission, the following spring. It was the best we could have hoped for.
In September of 2009 it came back. She started to have significant pain in her hip and knee and prior to going into a partial hip replacement they did a PET scan. I remember when she called me, I was on my way back from lunch with Dave (whom I had just met a few months prior but is now my husband) and I got a call. I pulled over in a parking lot with soccer fields and listened as she told me it was worse than we could have ever anticipated. Stronger this time, spreading to her hip, lungs, liver, and arm bones. I remember I lost it that day, the day my grieving began. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t focus, couldn’t stop crying for her – or for me. It was the beginning of the end but with her determined spirit she started fighting again. A true army of support from family, church, Sysco, junior achievement, soroptimist, and friends created an environment where she could cry or laugh, be uplifted in song or scripture, be fed with delicious home cooked meals. Cards, flowers, books of encouragement poured through my parent’s home. My mom’s coworkers and friends had created a money pool to help me travel from St Louis, MO to Salisbury, MD every 3-4 weeks. An unbelievable gift, of time, that was bestowed by those who gave generously and loved her so deeply.
She was accepted into a trial for a different chemo and had started that when, during a physical therapy visit, they noticed stroke like symptoms. Her face was dropping and her speech slurred. Following a hospital visit we found the bitch had spread again, to her brain. Radiation started immediately. She was so tired. Her strength started to diminish even if her spirit was intact. Her faith grew stronger. I hated watching this woman, my role model, be worn down by a disease that we couldn’t (and can’t) figure out how to fight. I began mourning, only this time it was pleas to God to save her. But from what, death? If you believe in God and have lived a righteous life then why fear death? I pleaded for me. Selfishly, I wasn’t done. I needed more time. She had so much more knowledge to give.
The call came, a bit unexpected, in the early hours of April 3, 2010. Trouble breathing, ambulance, hospital, on life support. I had to get home. When you live 1000 miles away, that’s the hard part. You are at the mercy of others. When I landed in Philadelphia I called my dad. My mother had taken her last breath as my plane was taking off from St Louis. I was now stuck in an airport for 3 hours with no one. No matter how sick someone is, how long their illness lasts – you can’t prepare yourself for that moment. I was so glad I had heard it from Dad. In today’s world we share, everything, just like I’m doing here. We share moments from our lives, glimpses that allow people to perceive us in a certain way. That day I didn’t have anyone to share in my misery, or so I thought, when my dad spoke on the phone I dropped my Vera Bradley weekender in the middle of the walkway. I slumped my shoulders and I sobbed. This amazing thing happened then, time stood still for a moment and several strangers stood around me with their hands on my back. It sounds odd, uncomfortable even but it wasn’t. It was comfort, it was compassion for a loss they would never understand the impact on me.
In the days that followed, the visitation, burial and reception brought sympathy givers from near and far. Telling you how sorry they are, how everything will be ok, that time will heal all wounds. They never tell you that after the first few weeks people stop checking in. The time frame that I have commonly referred to as “the quiet after the storm” is brutal. It’s the time when meals and cards stop coming to the house, when people go on about their lives and on to the next tragedy. It’s not their fault, it’s a time for you to start picking up the pieces. If you can breathe. No one tells you that you will still pick up the phone two years later to try and to her you’re getting married or six months after that to share the news of grandchildren. Time doesn’t heal wounds, time makes them smaller as other new, fresh wounds appear. Time impacts memories though every now and then you will smell sweet cinnamon and think of her. But there was hope.
On May 16, 2014 I was blessed with two healthy, vibrant, beautiful little girls and I started telling them about Grandma Becki right away. Of course, I went through a stage of anger and frustration after the girls were born that Mom wasn’t there. That I couldn’t lean on her. My emotional journey following the girls being born is a whole different story but there are certain times you “need” your mom and childbirth and the days, weeks, months, etc immediately following are one of them. Even during that time the hope lay in the stories I was able to tell. In the learnings I had and the ability to teach values that were instilled in me. My mother lives on through me, and someday through my children. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of her, how she would handle something, how she would inquire, her ability to love and when I see those things in my children it makes me smile. 