As I drive to Walgreens to pick up yet another prescription, I violently sob.

My mommy is dying of metastatic cancer.

The person who made me, birthed me, who has seen every side of me and loved me anyway, will soon be gone from this world.

Only six weeks ago, she was a normal person—walking, talking, and able to fully take care of herself.

In a short time, she has deteriorated at such a rate that it makes my heart ache and my mind spin with questions.

What started as a hospital visit for back pain ended in a stage four cancer diagnosis. No warning and no signs.

These past six weeks have not only broken her, but they have also broken me.

As I pull into the parking lot—a parking lot I have been to hundreds of times with her in tow—I start to feel the absence of her in my life.

She will never text or call me again. We will never go out to breakfast or lunch, take a drive, share a conversation, or travel together. I feel like I’ve taken those things for granted, even though I couldn’t have known that this would happen.

Deep in my soul, though, I always knew cancer would be her end. She’s fought it three times previously, and this time, it came back with a vengeance. It’s a thought I would push back to the deep corners of my mind, begging it to stay there and not haunt me.

As I sit beside her, her breathing is labored, and she looks and smells so old. Being alive is a cruel and sad experience.

When I get up to the pharmacy counter, my grief spills over, and I can’t contain my emotions. I ask for my mom’s prescription, and another sobbing round takes over. I literally can’t talk as tears stream down my face.

How will I live in this world without her presence? Who will protect me? Who will have my back? Who will I call when I need help or guidance? Who will care about the small details of my life?

I’ve always considered myself a strong person, but watching her die shows me I have been arrogant.

I’m not strong. I’m just as vulnerable as anyone else. Something that terrifies me even more than this moment.

As I walk back to my car and try to wrap my mind around what’s happening, something hits me.

It’s a question that’s been on my mind since this all started, but now, it bubbles up and slams into me like a freight train: who am I showing up as in this moment?

Can I take all the spiritual lessons and apply them here? How do I call up with grace and courage? How do I support myself through this so I can support her?

When you know someone is about to die, it’s a mix of conflicting emotions.

There’s pain and grief but also liberation and freedom because you don’t want them to suffer anymore.

You pray for them to stick around, and you pray for them to go. You want both, but you can’t have both.

No one can understand until they’re inside this experience. You think you know how you’re going to feel, but you can’t prepare for it. You can’t take a quiz to prepare for the test.

The test is way too big.

There is no preparation. There’s only the present moment, something I cling to because soon my present moments won’t include her.

I don’t know what’s worse: knowing the end is near and having time to say goodbye, or not knowing and having someone suddenly go. I honestly can’t decide.

Because watching her become a shell of herself is utter hell, something I didn’t think I could witness, but now, I must.

Because when she’s gone, a part of me will go with her.

A few weeks ago, a good friend said something so poignant that I can’t get it out of my head.

He said that even as a 50-something, he feels that when his mom passes, that last layer of protection from the world will be gone.

I feel that deeply, and I’m terrified for what that will mean.

All I can do is feel what I feel in each moment and not judge myself for it.

To know that I did all I could, even when I was so fatigued that I couldn’t see straight. To understand that this was out of my hands from the beginning—there are some things we can’t control.

And when you’re inside this, you realize how many people have come before you. You learn that you are not alone in your grief. You see how interconnected we are in life and in death.

Maybe these platitudes will help me when that moment comes, and maybe they won’t. I am facing an unknown I have never faced before.

I’ve decided to show up as my most present self as best as I can. And to remember that I’m human and it’s okay to feel conflicted, exhausted, and scared out of my mind.

I’m facing a reality that wasn’t there six weeks ago. Part of me has already grieved, and part of me knows the grieving has just begun.

Relationships with parents can be complicated, but when you’re about to lose one, everything becomes clear: did I cherish this person enough?

I sometimes feel like I’m floating above myself, not quite sure where to land. I’m numb, and I’m a wreck. I’m emotional, and I’m stoic.

I’m whatever I need to be in each moment, and that’s the best I can do.

Why did this have to be the way it went? Why couldn’t she have gone peacefully? Why all this strife and struggle?

These are questions I will probably never have answers to, because in some ways, those are between her and her soul. Her destiny is not something I can change, no matter how much I want to.

So I’ve decided that it’s time to live—truly live.

Everything I’ve avoided, I’m now facing.

Of all my hurdles in life, I know this is my Mount Everest. The thing that will define how I go forward and what I choose to let in.

And when my mom finally flies with the angels, I hope I can remember how much she loved me. Because not having that feels impossible.

I love you forever, mommy. And I’m so grateful for all the time we had.

~