770 days ago, we found out there was a mass in my mom’s brain. 770 days ago, we did not have many answers, but we had hope and a pit in our stomachs. 770 days ago, we questioned everything and started bracing for impact. It started slowly, but piece by piece we added armor. Some days it felt like all we had was scotch tape and paperclips, but we held it together. For 770 days, I have felt like I have cycled through all of the stages of grief 1000 times. From treatments and scans to conferences and second opinions, we have all stood behind my sweet mom in the fight for her life. 17 days ago, they told us the fight was coming to an end. No more treatment. No more scans. No more options to weigh or decisions to make. This is the end of the road.
Even though I had nearly 770 days to prepare for the inevitable, the news hit like a ton of bricks. I still felt like the rug got pulled out from underneath me and it was hard to catch my breath. Even though I knew without a shadow of a doubt how this would all end, I sat in stunned silence while the news washed over me like a salty ocean wave. I held it together on the phone and then sat with a coffee in my hands across from my best friend from college in a downtown coffee shop and let the tears gently slide down my cheeks.
“I thought it would be easier when the time finally came. I thought once I knew there might be some sense of relief that she could stop fighting. But I am angrier and sadder than I have ever felt. There is nothing easier about knowing the short timeline you were staring down 2 years ago is now shorter. You can see the end now instead of just a long line, but you might as well be running backward on a moving sidewalk. Your efforts are futile.”
I have seen my mom a lot over the last 17 days (not unlike the 770 days before that) and I will see her as much as I can for however many days, weeks, or months we have left. I will tell funny stories about the boys and sit with her while she runs her fingers gently up and down my forearm. I will kiss her cheek and hug her as long as she holds on. I will cherish every moment I get to watch her with her best friends and her family, sharing laughs and hugs and a million words she cannot speak.
The wonderful thing about my mom is that people have been telling me how amazing she is my entire life. No one has ever held back in telling stories about her and how she has enriched their lives. She was never just a mediocre person. She has always been incredible. People did not wait for her to be diagnosed with a terminal illness before telling her directly how much she means to them, but just in case she needs the reminder, many are telling her again. I am so grateful for that. I am grateful that they all have seen her for who she is and loved her fiercely. I am grateful that she will never question what she meant to others or the mark she made on this world. I am bitter about many cliches like seizing the day or live every day like it’s your last these days but I promise you if there is one thing I will take away from all of this, it’s that I will tell the people in my life how special they are as often as I can.
When writing this post and reflecting on the days that have passed, I think about who I was 770 days ago. I think about the things that I wasted time worrying about and the things I gave energy to that didn’t serve me. I think about the perspective I have gained in this cruel adventure and how no matter how many days we have left, I will always be a better person because of my mom and her fight. I would trade all the perspective in the world to have her with me for the next 60 years, but since I can’t, I will honor her all of the days she has left and all of the days that follow.
For those of you reading that know her and love her, please share your stories while we can still share them with her. xo
-T-
4 thoughts on “770 Days But Who’s Counting?”
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I just read your beautiful testimony, the tears come easy. I worked next to Jen at Beacom, so we had our sessions about how it’s going, now that she’s gone, I hate that I’m not here for those moments during the day anymore. Watching my sister battle cancer, and praying for strength, I realized God was providing, the friend that let you cry, be angry, frustrated, etc. they always seemed to be there, so I always wanted to honor my sisters memory by being that person for others in similar situations.
Your mom has raised a beautiful and very special family, she’s kept you all close, and that will be as important as anything during these hard times. I’m praying for comfort for all of you, and for your mom’s final journey to Heaven, may her passing be every bit as beautiful and peaceful as her living. Prayers for all.
This is a beautiful essay. Tha I you for sharing your experience. My sister Kerry Doyle was terribly sad when she learned of Mary’s diagnoses and subsequent updates. And yet, when Kerry was diagnosed with cancer she was aware that she was not alone. I will be praying for your family today.
I feel so saddened to read this. What a beautiful tribute to your lovely Mom. I only knew her during high school but she was always one of the smiley-est warmest people there. My heart goes out to your Father, Nick, and to you girls and your families. I will keep you all and Mary in my thoughts and prayers.
I went to high school with your mom, and her beauty has always mesmerized me. And her kindness and warmth. Your mom led our reunions with quiet grace and charm – and made the rest of us look good in the process. I always look forward to seeing your mom at Blue Monarch downtown – she has a way of brightening a room and her pride in her family is heartwarming. God speed.