I know that my mom is the center of her own story. The star of her own show. Dying of pancreatic cancer is traumatic. Bearing the pain, the news, the treatments. I cannot imagine the grief and loss that comes with facing the end in that way. Her story is not mine to tell.
And yet . . .
Being the daughter is difficult, too. There is a strange supporting role that overlaps. I have my own story of grief and loss in the midst of watching my mom live out her days. I am losing my mom, my hopes and dreams with her, my emergency contact person for my kids in school.
In early July when I filled out school registration forms for my three high school kids, it was so easy, because everything was the same. In August when I registered the fourth in a new space and automatically began typing my mom’s information in as an emergency contact person, I froze with the reality of the news we had been given and broke into gut-wrenching sobs before texting my sister-in-law to ask if I could use her instead. I did not even want to consider what the end of the school year might look like or where we would be.
I sit awake in the middle of the night, the time when grief barrels down like a freight train, because that is when the house is still and quiet and no one needs me. I carry my quilt and hot tea to the tiny office upstairs and sit.
One day I will have home office space big enough to hold a couch or recliner or something more comfortable than a chair and makeshift tiny ottoman. I am thankful for what I have now, space just for me and Pierre the bird, whose cage I have resumed covering again so my middle-of-night visits don’t disrupt him..
On a good night I meditate or journal or read to quiet my mind before returning to bed. Then there are the nights I spend searching my phone, scrolling for stories, for connection, for others who may be feeling similar grief. Those nights I know I should just put down the phone. It’s not good for my sleep cycle to be staring at the light.
It’s also not good for my sleep cycle to have a mom that is dying.
We won another month.
Hello, November! You bring us a new start.
I deeply hoped we would, even though the beginning of October felt tenuous enough for me to cancel a trip, even as mom planned one of her own. She travelled, saw her people. I stayed home, sat in hard places, and fed her cats. I started a new client and engaged my own grief.
l listened as my body bore witness to my story, kept showing up for my coaching group, checked on Mom when she returned, gave big space when I couldn’t.
I want to know how this ends, but I don’t want it to end. I want a place to fall, land, be held without feeling both complicit and responsible. I want absolution. Kindness. Care. I want to watch all of the amazing things everyone else is doing with their lives and families while believing that my grieving is enough for right now.
I am both a daughter losing her mother and a mother of many who need to be actively mothered. This is not easy. There is a little girl inside who just wants to be able to cry, release, speak the truth of where I am without being blamed or fixed. We all need so much of each other. We are all so alone.
Being the daughter means having young places inside stirred by this reality, places that desire deep freedom to be who I am and generous love and acceptance. Big kindness. I want to be seen, known, loved, understood, tended. Being the daughter means sitting in the shadows watching the stars of this show play out their scenes together.
The shadows feel familiar.
I am so grateful for each of you who has seen me and reached out in the ways you felt led. From cards in the mail to bread and butter left in brown paper packages on the porch to invitations for walks to understanding that my absence or silence is not personal, it all matters.
Even unspoken thoughts matter when you are the daughter losing her words in the midst of this nightmarish loss.