Goodbye, Best friend
Three words can change a person’s life forever. Three words as simple as “I love You”, “You
are fired” or in my case “I have cancer”. A little over eight years ago I had to hear my Mom tell
me those three words.
I was only nine years old when she was first diagnosed and at the time I didn’t know
what this entailed - chemo once a week, five surgeries, and in the long run, losing my best friend.
I cannot imagine how she felt having to tell her own kids she was sick. So sick that one day she
might not be there to see us graduate high school, get married, or meet our children.
I remember the day she told all of us like it was yesterday. She called my brothers and I
into the living room. Sitting there were her and my Stepdad. As soon as we all sat down she
began to cry. She told us, “I have been seeing a lot of doctors lately, and I wanted to let you guys
know, I have cancer.” There it was. Those three words that took everything I thought was pure
and great in the world away. It was like my whole life someone was lying to me. As a kid, you
think this world is perfect and innocent. Then one day it hits you, not soft and gentle, but like a
train. It hits you with the cold hard truth that this world is imperfect and in that moment, you
know everything is going to be different.
After she told us, we all sat there, crying of course. She tried to convince us that she was
going to be okay, and at the time, I think she thought she was. That day, a lot of family came
over. It was different. They treated us like we were a glass, teetering off the edge of a table, on
the verge of being broken. There was hugging and even more crying. We spent most of that day
sitting outside talking and reminiscing of all the fantastic times we have had together. The
weather was beautiful. A cool breeze on a spring day. Everything was blooming and the sky was
blue. Not a cloud in sight.
At first, she thought she was going to beat it, as did I. But as time progressed, so did the
cancer. In the beginning, the cancer, or the monster, started in her colon and metathesized to her
liver. It was about three and a half years into her battle that she told me she was dying. As a
naive 13-year-old, terrified of losing the person who loved and cared for me the most, I was in
denial. Unfortunately, I came to realize that this was the truth. There it is again, the truth.
Nothing soft or warm about it, but that same imperfect train, hitting you when you least expect it.
I started to see my beautiful Mom slipping away. She began to grow weak, so weak she
could not leave her bed. I noticed her front teeth began to change color, they were rotting. It
grew more difficult each day for her to be able to keep a coherent thought. It was hard to have a
conversation with her because she could just not understand anymore. Through these moments,
that is when I knew. I knew that she was gone. I knew her beautiful self was taken over by that
monster.
It was May 27th, 2013. Memorial Day. My Step Dad rushed into my room and woke me
up. He kneeled next to my bed, he took a deep breath and I looked at him. Tears began to stream
down my face. I knew it was time so I ran into their room. Our whole family was already there,
weeping by her bedside. She was lying there so still, her breathing slow. Every once in a while, a
tear would stream down her face. She knew what was happening and could do nothing to stop it.
About an hour after I was woken up that Monday morning, 8:04 a.m., my Mother had
passed away. Forever, I knew my life was going to be different. From that moment on, I was no
longer doing stuff for my benefit, but to make her proud.
I am here today. A first-generation college student. Studying to become a grief counselor
because of her. My drive in life comes from that exquisite women. She taught me that I cannot
have courage if there is no fear. She taught me that forgiveness is not a curse but a blessing. And
the most important thing she taught me was to never give up. She may have lost her battle, but
she showed me how to fight. I will love her, forever and always.
