Processing Grief

The fall of my senior year of high school was a busy time. Applying for colleges, desperately retaking the ACT over and over to match the scores of my friends, tasks that I was prepared my entire high school career to do. What I wasn’t prepared for was my mother’s cancer diagnosis.

I came home from school and my mom told me about it casually. One of her kidneys had been overtaken by a gigantic cancerous tumor, that the following week she’d go to the hospital and have it removed. The progression of the cancer wouldn’t be fully determined until after the surgery. She told me not to worry. Her kidney was removed on Halloween and my father couldn’t help but tell everyone who came by the house about it. At the time I felt scornful that he’d share our family trauma to every stranger. He knew more than I did though. He was just trying to process the grief in real time.

My mom was diagnosed with stage 4 kidney cancer. The night she told me I couldn’t help but research it, despite her wishes for me not to. 8% were the chances of her still being alive 5 years after the diagnosis. She’d make it to see my college graduation if I was lucky, but likely not much longer than that.

My optimism skyrocketed in the following months. The doctors were constantly monitoring for return of the cancer cells and as far as they could tell, it wasn’t returning. My mom was in excellent spirits. Her movements weren’t nearly as fast as before her surgery, but were still excellent nevertheless given everything that happened. By the time my prom and graduation came around, the cancer diagnosis to some extent faded to the back of my mind. My mom, through her sheer will power, somehow didn’t allow the cancer to spread throughout her body.

I went to college several states away. I had the made the decision of which colleges to apply to long before her diagnosis, and unfortunately I didn’t applied to any remotely close by. I felt less concerned about the prospect by the time I left for Miami University. I was having a very difficult time adjusting to university. I only made friends with my roommate. I hadn’t felt like such a social pariah since elementary school. I’d call my mom frequently and we’d have long 2 hour phone calls catching each other up on our lives. I didn’t inform her of everything of course. She didn’t know anything about my sexuality, my relationships; she certainly didn’t know about the fact that I was skipping class frequently due to my struggling mental health. I never ever considered my mom my best friend, but I did consider her a friend. She was someone who I felt having distance from really helped our relationship. No longer was she the person who nagged at me about my refusal to study; she was someone to listen to me sob on the phone about how terrible I felt being rejected from the school paper after completely botching my first and only assignment.

My family came to pick me up from university in May of 2019. It wasn’t until that day did I see all the signs of illness that weren’t apparent on our phone calls. She couldn’t walk very far without being completely out of breath. She couldn’t stand really. I discovered many years after the fact that during this time period, she was on an oxygen tank but decided to come on the trip anyway, abandoning the tank at home, as she wasn’t sure if she’d be healthy enough to come with us in the fall for my sophomore year.

Her health declined rapidly. She was not well when she picked me up, then the problems became worse and worse when we arrived home. She couldn’t climb the stairs at all. Her feet were swelling up, at some point so severe we had to take her to the emergency room several times. One night I went to my friend’s house to drink wine and temporarily escape my mother’s cancer and received a text at 1 am from her. She told me that she couldn’t sleep unless I was home. I drove home not entirely sober. It wasn’t right of me, but I couldn’t bear the thought of my mom who was already so ill feeling worried about me and my stupid self destruction.

2 weeks after picking me up from school, she was dead.

I don’t know what my last conversation was with her. She texted me, asking me to come visit her in the hospital soon, and I didn’t come fast enough. I was paranoid that when I did, I’d give her peace and she’d die. I was so scared of her dying, and I thought maybe she’d use that same miraculous willpower after having a kidney removed to keep pushing onwards, so long as I didn’t let her give me her final thoughts, she couldn’t die. That’s not how cancer works. By the time I realized that, it was too late. She was conscious for the last time. I got to visit her twice in hospice, I’d squeeze her hand and try to get her to squeeze back. A woman with a therapy dog in the lobby asked me if I was here to visit a grandparent. I decided to ruin her day and let her know I was there to be with my 56 year old mom. I wasn’t asked any more questions.

The funeral happened fast. Some remarked to me that I seemed very strong despite the circumstances, but that wasn’t true. I was just in shock. Many around me understood the direness of her situation long before I did. I knew only for 2 weeks that her health wasn’t as good as I had thought. It was not until many years after her passing did I learn that her original prognosis only gave her 3 months to live. No one else knew this but my father, who she allowed to attend the early doctor visits with her. I understand that she felt like nobody else would match her optimism on the matter. Everyone who knew what was happening to her treated her like she was already dead. I cannot blame her for not wanting to tell me. She wanted 1 normal relationship, just one where someone wouldn’t speak to her as though she was about to evaporate into nothingness. My own selfishness wishes she did tell me though.

I wish I could’ve had a thousand questions to ask and be answered. She was a secretive person, someone who undoubtedly had a private life for good reason. After her death I’d try to desperately seek out basic answers to benign questions that somehow couldn’t be answered. Who were her bridesmaids at her wedding? Do they know she’s dead? What was her first boyfriend like, the one she dated before my father? Why did she choose the career path she did, I think she could’ve made a fantastic writer so why did choose fashion merchandising?

I write this in July of 2021, 5 years and 1 month after her passing. It’s taken me a very long time, but I’ve think I’ve somehow gained some kind of peace with the situation. The grief happens suddenly and without warning. Sometimes it is a slow dull pain that wades in and out of conversation. But in between those periods of despair, I think I can feel happiness again, for the first time in a very long time. I’ve really fought for it; I’ve gone to several therapists and tried many medications. I kept trying after combinations kept failing me. I didn’t give up on trying to feel okay again. I try not to feel guilt for this desire. I know she wouldn’t want me to feel sad forever, but it is difficult to not feel horrible about myself for it anyway.

Before this event happened, I was already a pretty moody person. As a child I cried constantly, and that habit has resurfaced in my adulthood. For many people that is a negative that far outweighs any benefit. When the folks in my life stick around despite that, I try to cling on as tight as I can. Oftentimes those same people disappear from my life after they come to the same conclusion. Assuming I ever publish this anywhere, I guess I just want you to know I’m doing better.

Grief remains at the forefront of my brain, but that’s okay. I’m learning to change around it instead of trying to destroy it.

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