Tara’s Story
Like so many out there, the bond my mother and I had was—is, still—incredibly sacred to me. I know I'm not alone in feeling like my bond with mine was the most treasured, beautiful, and deep there could ever be. The kind that could far surpass all time and space. Our love was "to the cosmos", as we would say to each other. Now each time I look up at the stars, I look to her. For her, in a way. It brings me equal parts sadness and joy.
I want to recognize how insanely grateful I feel to have had such a relationship with her, though. I know there are others that aren't so lucky. Not that we didn't argue every so often, because what mother/daughter duo doesn't... ha! But I know she's laughing about it all now. Her soul is living its best life, just hanging out in whatever universe she's in with my dad who also passed away from cancer six months after her.
The Backstory
My mom had dealt with GERD—chronic acid reflux—for years. As 2017 and 2018 rolled around, she seemed to be having more and more trouble keeping food down. And in an alarming way, eventually. We still don’t know for sure if the GER led to the events I’m about to reveal but, given it affects the esophagus, I feel the need to put it out there in case this could be a cautionary tale to anyone else. Also, to me, it just seems to be coincidental (call it daughter's intuition, if you will).
The Diagnosis
It was around May of 2019, and I remember getting a call from my dad as we were about to have dinner with John, my now-husband, and his family. He had to take my mom to the ER because she was having a lot of trouble breathing. It was horrifying. Nothing could bring my mom down. Nothing. She was the most Taurus of all Taurus out there. She was a force of nature at 4'11", and I adored every bit of her. Also, she seriously just never seemed to get sick... even with a cold. Needless to say, I was a crying mess in the restaurant parking lot, and there would be no focus on that dinner.
Not long after that hospital visit, at 62 years of age, she was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. She had an aggressive 10-inch tumor in her esophagus that was growing into her airway.
Simply put, it was caught way too late. It was shocking, crushing, and I was in disbelief. We all were. I didn't understand how this was her reality. Our reality.
The Tracheotomy
At one point during her decline, they made a last-minute decision to do a tracheostomy. She was only supposed to have a stent placed in her airway, which would have been her second one. We were not prepared for that, and from that procedure onward I never heard her voice again. Even as I’m writing this, I still have to let that sink in sometimes. I swear, we as humans are so painfully unequipped for things in life sometimes it’s almost comical.
Anyway, as this would become FAR too long I won’t go into the specifics on the various treatments, hospital visits, and somewhat graphic nature of her decline because that’s not what I’m here for. I want to respect her privacy, too, even now. Needless to say, I truly hadn't been through a lot of serious trauma in my life up until that point. That was so shot to hell now it wasn’t even funny. I felt insanely lost and painfully concerned for my mom's health, but (weirdly) optimistic still that she would pull through. I tend to be more glass-half-full with life but, I hate to say it, I may have been a little naive. But you don't know what you don't know, right?
The Decline
The evening before her passing, she was in the ICU and on life support—and we needed to make a decision. A decision I never asked for and never wanted. I had never been put in a position like that in my life, and I can't even express how unfair it feels. If you've been through it, you have an idea. I just remember feeling incredibly raw and in the worst emotional agony. I wanted to be with her, but in ANY other situation than the one I was in. I didn't understand how we got here.
My dad and I were there the entire day with her and were both absolutely drained, traumatized, deeply grieving already, and not ready whatsoever to let her go. Not like this, and not without it on her terms. I even remember saying out loud that I wanted to give her a chance. A chance to pass when she was ready.
As I was on my way home, around 4:15pm I got a call from the hospital that I should come back. Her blood pressure was slowly dropping—a telltale sign someone is on their way to the other side.
Getting "The Call"
I remember this moment so well because, as I was driving through this incredibly beautiful part of California, there was the most insanely vibrant double rainbow you’ve ever seen. I mean, at least 10 or more cars (including myself) were parked on the side of the road taking photos. It was when I was taking that photo that I got the call, and immediately turned around.
I made the decision to stay in the city where the hospital is located. To be near her that night in case things took an even more serious turn. There was no way I was leaving her or not having the ability to get to her quickly. I had to be with her when she passed. It was something I was called to do; I can’t explain it. It felt like she wanted me there, too. And I think, subconsciously, I knew it was coming that night.
At around 2:30am, we got a call that her BP was extremely low and it would likely be anytime now. My now-husband and I rushed over, and I can truly say I’ve never felt such panic, angst, and sorrow all at once. I was so terrified I would miss being there with her. But, she waited (or so I like to think).
I sat alone by her side as my husband sat in the waiting room (I didn't want him there, I needed this to be her and I). Holding her hand, crying the most guttural tears I've ever experienced, and talking to her. The nurse said she could hear me, so I mustered what I could. Eventually, much to my misery but a feeble attempt at selflessness, I told her it was okay to leave whenever she felt it was time. It wasn't okay, but this was just too much.
Her Passing
She had taken a somewhat sudden, larger breath than normal, and looking back I truly think that was her last. With the ventilator still moving her body a little bit, it was hard to tell at the time. Moments later, the nurse came over to check on things and let me know in such a kind, loving way that she was gone.
By the way, if there are any nurses reading this—you all are godsends and so appreciated. That nurse that night was an angel, and I’ll never forget her kindness and compassion.
I had sat with her for about an hour before she passed away at 3:27am. Honestly, it was extremely peaceful. It was the numbest and most stripped of my heart I had ever felt in my existence, but it was calm.
After a few minutes, once I had a moment to gain an ounce of composure, I called my dad to let him know. The sound of his voice and what he said was nothing I’ll ever forget. He made his way to the hospital to say goodbye to his magnificent, beautiful best friend of over three decades.
The Aftershock
If you've lost your sweet mom and are reading this, I know you see me right now and please know I see you, too. When you feel like you’ve had a piece of your soul forcefully ripped out right from your being, you’re never really the same. Our mother gave us life, but when theirs is taken from us, how could we not feel part of ourselves leave, too?
I know people often associate soulmates with life partners, but I like to think of our moms and soulmates, too. We choose them, and we're forever part of each other on so many levels.
My mom was not of this world, the way she brought an overwhelming presence and light into a room in the most magnificent way. She was certainly beautiful on the outside but profoundly, overwhelmingly beautiful on the inside. I've never seen anything like it. Sure, maybe I'm biased, but it pains me that no one will get to experience it as I did.
I miss making Tollhouse chocolate chip cookies with her. I miss her tight hugs that exuded so much love. I miss the way we would tease each other, perfectly balanced by deep, impactful conversations about life, relationships, jobs, you name it. I miss her smell and her perfume wafting around the house. Her beautiful blonde hair that I didn't inherit. I miss how she lived ever so slightly with her head in the clouds or her nose in a flower, constantly stopping to smell them as we enjoyed walks together. I missed her at my wedding this year, an occasion I never envisioned having without her and my dad. I miss how she still addressed Christmas gifts to me "from Santa" and made me look for Easter baskets, even at 30 years old. I miss playing double solitaire together, watching Midnight in Paris, and belting out Aerosmith in the car. I miss too many things to list here.
But I'm grateful to have a laugh like hers. I'm grateful to have started noticing more similarities in the way we speak or our mannerisms, and that others have noticed, too. I'm grateful for the heart full of curiosity, strength, and wanderlust she instilled in me. For every single lesson she taught me, even the ones I forgot about but will surely remember later in life or if I'm a mother myself one day. Yet another thing I can't believe she won't be here in person for. I'm grateful for the time we had, though I feel robbed.
I'm grateful she's mine, despite not having her next to me.
