Denise Elizabeth

We all have our favorite memories. Some are monumental life events, like getting married, or having a kid. Or maybe if you’re younger like me, participating in your siblings’ weddings and becoming an aunt (or uncle). Maybe it wasn’t anything like that, but we all have favorite memories like those. But what about the small ones that you rarely talk about? The ones that still make you cry, laugh, or just smile? I’ve held off on writing the entire story of my mom because, knowing me, I’d make it pretty long and it would be emotionally exhausting. But I’ve now written a few specific stories that help to go along with the timeline and progression of my thoughts at the time of her death, as well as her declining health leading up to it:

Regarding the beginning of it all, I’ve only retained a few vivid memories of long phone calls, people coming to our house to take care of us kids while Mom and Dad went to the hospital, etc. However, I know she dealt with it three times. One of those times, she had to wear a back brace. She couldn’t pick things up, and it wasn’t as fun to give her hugs because of the hard plastic surrounding her torso. This effect of cancer had a great toll on her life and in taking care of her husband and kids. But she persevered. She fought hard and she fought well. Once she had the back brace removed, I remember being overjoyed because I could finally hug her again and feel her embrace. As weird as it may sound, I loved that she was all squishy and no longer surrounded by hard, uncomfortable plastic. I’m sure she was glad too. Just a year after we moved from Virginia to Florida, my parents got a phone call. I didn’t know what was going on or if there had been anything leading up to this. Either that day or the following, my sister and I had a birthday party to go to. Her having cancer again wouldn’t stop her from getting us to the party. We were dropped off by our parents at the arcade on their way to the hospital. Although I didn’t know any of the girls, I remember still having fun. But I couldn’t get over the news or enjoy everything going on. One thing I do remember clearly, however, is going into a bathroom stall and just crying. I was an eight year old girl, at a friend’s party, crying in a stall because my mom was sick and could be dying. Not something I like to remember, but movie worthy, right?

While she was in the hospital, us kids would frequently visit her. I recall walking the halls with my sister and Mom, talking with her while also observing the other people in the hospital who were sick. Peering into the rooms at older men with the shades closed, or someone younger but nondescript. At the time, I didn’t think, “Wow, I can’t imagine what Mom is going through right now.” I only thought about myself and how hard it would be on me if she left. Wow, I was (and still am) selfish. My mom was the kind of woman who put just about everything in front of herself. I’ve waited too long to finally recognize the full extent of this. I know people tend to say their mother is the best in the world or how they’ve never known someone so astounding. Who knows, maybe someone does have the best mom. But to me, my mom was the best. She was the best for me. She loved and cared for me, disciplined me when I needed it, taught me about God and how to write my name. And she did the same for all other seven of her kids. I take pride in saying that I want to be at least half the mother she was someday.

There were a few times somewhere between February and December of 2011 in which Mom was home. Anytime she was, us kids would be exhilarated and relieved that she was back, even if not for long. Her presence brought a feeling of peace and gave us new energy to do what was needed once she had to leave again. One evening, I went into my parent’s room. What I saw there instantly brought me to tears. My mom was on the floor, hugging and crying over my mentally disabled sister, Shannon. They were both sick. One had been for life, the other soon to lose their life. Shannon had no ability to understand what was going on, but I have this feeling that she felt a sense of sadness. I sat down and cried with them both, not having to say a word. It’s heartbreaking to be hugging your mother, crying because you know she’s not going to be able to hug you for much longer. To know she’s leaving, and Shannon could go sometime soon as well, while I was to stay behind and live my life without them. I can’t begin to imagine how she felt or what she was thinking. She had to leave her husband, her children, and everything she loved. I’m sure she was elated to know she would soon be in the presence of God Himself, but knowing you have to leave must be so painful.

Another time, some friends took me and my sister for a surprise visit to the hospital. I remember rubbing hand sanitizer across my hands and walking in. Doctors were there, talking about who knows what. As a child would, I immediately went to hug her. In that moment, I was so overwhelmed by the backlash I received for simply wanting to hug my mom. “Careful, don’t step on that tube!” or “Watch the cord!” They all meant well, but how messed up is it that a child can’t hug her own mother without having to watch every move she makes? Of course I didn’t want to hurt her, but why can’t I just be able to hug her? This was one of those moments where I had begun to lose hope that she’d make it. She will always be my mother, but in that moment I realized she couldn’t be my mom. She couldn’t take care of me. She couldn’t tell me if my clothes matched. She couldn’t give me butterfly kisses, or write an overly detailed Facebook post about something funny I said. I wouldn’t be able to snuggle with her every morning, tapping my fist on her head and running my fingers across her scalp, imitating an egg breaking and running through her beautiful hair. She couldn’t be my mom, and I couldn’t be her daughter.

I always had a hope she’d be okay. She had beaten cancer before, she can do it again, right? Right? I still remember sitting in a hospital waiting room with my siblings, my mom probably being in her hospital room. My dad told us that Mom would be going into hospice. My older siblings, being educated on the subject, cried. I was the one to ask, “What’s hospice?” Through stuttering, my dad simply said, “When the doctors can no longer do anything to help Mom.” I understood the immediate conclusion and cried. How can you not? My world shattered, already having a few cracks here or there. How was I going to live without her? How would we manage? How awkward would it be when my friends would say things like, “Do you wanna have a sleepover? I can ask my mom.” And I knew I wouldn’t be able to ask mine. I know that’s stupid and doesn’t really matter, but it’s those little things that painfully remind you of peoples’ absence, and what my nine year old self thought about.

My mother was being eaten from the inside by this horrible thing called cancer. I cannot begin to express my hatred for it, and I’m sure it’s the same for others who have dealt with it, either directly or indirectly. I look back on photos from 2011: my last birthday with her, last Mother’s Day, and our last Thanksgiving, Mom looking worse and worse as time went on. And no, I didn’t forget to mention Christmas. She didn’t make it to Christmas that year. I have a photo of her putting gifts into my stocking. Every time I see it I cry. She is just two days away from dying, and here she is stuffing her daughter’s stocking with things she doesn’t even deserve. I want to cherish that photo forever, as hard as it may be.

Less than a week before she passed, us kids went over to our grandparents’ house (where she was staying). We went into her room one at a time, all taking turns to have a moment with her. When it was my turn, I came in and she had a big black bag stuffed with some things. She pulled out a stuffed polar bear and gave it to me. It was incredibly soft and I loved it instantly. I vividly remember her saying something like, “Whenever you miss me, just hug the animal, okay?” and plenty of “I love you”’s I’m sure. I’m fifteen years old, and ever since that day I’ve slept with the bear. I hug it to my chest and fall asleep. I still panic and wildly search my room whenever I can’t find it. I gave her the name Snowflake (original, I know), and her nose is a little lopsided but it’s okay. Now, her fur is no longer soft due to everything it’s endured from me over the years. It’s one of those things I don’t usually think about and just go into autopilot mode for, but it still causes me to think of Mom.

Two days later, she was gone. We all knew it was coming, but nothing could’ve prepared us for the impact it would have. When told, “We need to talk,” I’m sure many of us experience an increase in our heart rate and our minds run wild, not knowing what it could be about. On December 18th, 2011 I was told this. My mind didn’t run wild, because I knew what had happened. As I write this, the cry I sounded upon hearing the news echoes in my head. I don’t think I’m ever going to forget it. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

The years following are an entirely different story, but for now I just want to comment on something I said at the beginning of this. We all have our little memories that we keep to ourselves. I’ve never told anyone about crying on the floor with my mom and sister. I’m always embarrassed when I tell people I sleep with a stuffed animal, but know they’d understand if they knew why. I just never want to tell them why. These are the little treasures we hold with us when we lose people or things. We hate to talk about some of them, but remembering the joyous time you had and putting it into words is just therapeutic and a major help in my life.

Every experience with death is different, but they all relate in that we all lost someone. Perhaps as you’re reading this, you too have lost your mother to cancer. Maybe you haven’t, I don’t know. Maybe you’ve lost someone close to you and are still burdened with their loss. Please do not hesitate to reach out to people and talk about it. If you can’t, try writing. I don’t know what writing this all was to accomplish, but I know that for me it was helpful to put my vivid memories into words and make them feel more alive. Although this small collection of memories is painful for me to write and proofread, I hope I’ve somehow helped you in gaining a better understanding of who I am and my story. I hope you remember that, even in difficult situations such as this, God remains faithful. There are far too many times where I begin to doubt this, but the very fact that I can sit here now, six years later, and write about all of these horrible and yet transforming memories, just proves that He truly is faithful and sovereign over all.