It was a Tuesday two years ago that changed my life forever. October 17th is an anniversary I’d like to forget. And I promise you, it’s one that I never imagined would be without her here.
It’s the day we heard the word “cancer”, not just in passing, but in description of my mom’s condition. I remember every detail of that day vividly. I was home from the office- sick and with a bad backache. I sat on the couch, Molly under my feet, trying to distract myself in work, but feeling an ominous silence over the day. I waited impatiently for the phone call signaling my mom made it out of the exploratory bronchoscopy, and when the phone rang, I somehow knew it wasn’t good news.
My dad’s tears were evident on the other line, even though I couldn’t see them dripping off of his cheeks. His voice did its best to remain positive describing how mom made it out of the procedure and “did great”, but it couldn’t mask the absolute shock and complete devastation that the diagnosis confirmed our greatest fear. The fear that sat in back of our minds that we refused to talk about in quiet hope that it wouldn’t be our story. I remember being on the phone with my sister listening to each other’s tears and asking over and over again “what do we do next?”.
I hung up and absolutely crumbled. Both my mom and I had a sense that this season was about to be something hard, but the confirmation shattered me.
A million questions started running through my mind.
How advanced is this? Will she have to endure chemo? What’s next? How do I support her and comfort her? How do I tell her I’m scared but also walk alongside her in Holy confidence that Jesus has this? Should I stay home and not move out? How do we tell people? Is this really my life?
I heard the garage door lift and had to silence all of them just to see her. I opened the door, we both looked at each other, embraced, and then fell apart. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes of fear, disappointment, and utter sadness at what was to come.
We cried and moved to the couch, and I asked her what she needed from me next. She described not having the energy to let people know and asked if I wouldn’t mind calling, so I started the list. Calling those closest to us saying the words I still couldn’t fathom were falling off of my lips. I cried over and over retelling the news I didn’t want and hearing the very differing responses from each person I spoke with.
It was after that day that she asked me to become her voice in all of this, and I know I’ll serve that honorable role for the rest of my life.
The days that followed were dark. As word spread, the flowers and meals poured in, our phones didn’t stop ringing, and mom’s health deteriorated further. On top of the diagnosis, she was battling an intense cold, fever, and extreme exhaustion.
So many came flooding into town to be close, to hear the final diagnosis on that Friday, and to show their support. So much of it was welcomed but it was also overcrowded. I found myself as Martha- still going to work, doing the dishes, making sure rooms are up to Jane’s standard of clean (it is very unique!) and acting as my mom’s secretary, answering messages and fielding disappointment from those who just couldn’t understand our need for time as a family. I felt like Martha- focused on the actions, the growing to do list, the notion that doing something for this circumstance felt better than the many variables I couldn’t control. But my heart was tenderly like Mary’s- wanting that precious time with just me and my mom but feeling that there wasn’t even the space to ask for it.
We stayed over her bed, praying out loud through wailing tears, and asking God that this cup would pass from her. I remember Mary Claire and I locking ourselves in my room. Sitting next to each other in silence. United in our fears and utter lack of understanding.
Still to this day I don’t think I’ve had the space to process the trauma of the influx of horrendous news, the crowds of people both in person and over messages, and the heartbreaking reality that my life changed forever with two words- it’s cancer.
We couldn’t have even comprehended just how horrific it would be. I’ll spare the details for now, but we made the choice to get through day by day by the grace of God- trusting in Him for it all.
It’s a faith-fueled survival mode.
We woke up day after day with reality striking us in the face and fought it with “BUT JESUS I KNOW YOU CAN AND BELIEVE YOU WILL!” We silenced the echoes of fears pounding in our heads with worship music and scriptures the Lord spoke to us. We fell and wept and leaned on each other to remind us of the fight and the glorious end in sight. We witnessed how people prayed and watched how we fought on our knees. We proclaimed over and over again John 11:4, when Jesus said, “This sickness will not end in death. No, it is for God’s glory so that God’s son will be glorified through it.” Over and over we confessed our fears to one another but fought in faith that the end was near, and so many people will come to know Jesus through mom’s miraculous healing. He would receive all the praise, honor, and glory, because it was Him who healed her.
But he didn’t.
The purpose and energy felt during that survival mode just stops, and the hope is replaced with disappointment and devastation.
I know so many have met Jesus through my mom’s life and legacy. But none of us, her included, thought it would be this way. I know one day I’ll be able to see more of the light rather than the darkness, but on a day like October 17th, it all feels too fresh and unfair.
As time passes, people return to their everyday lives. They stop calling, stop reaching out, and the flowers wilt. But each day in big ways and small, I’m reminded of the gut-wrenching reality that every day of my life will never be the same.
It’s when I go to call her to share a funny story, and I realize she’s not on the other end. It’s when I’m so heartsick over a decision or I want to talk deeply about God’s plans for my life that I ache for wanting to sit on the couch crying and praying together. It’s when I think of the future- my kids she’ll never meet- that I cannot bring myself to even think of the next hour without her.
One of my mom’s greatest gifts is her ability to look past the surface and get to the heart of the people she loves. She doesn’t make assumptions on how things look on the outside, and she’d be the first to tell you she absolutely HATES small talk. She asks the hard questions, gets to the deeper places, and knows the time and place to talk through the tough stuff.
I can’t tell you how much I miss that. How I miss her knowing I’m not okay, even when I’m persevering through the day to day. How I miss her overflowing grace and her knowledge of my heart and mind.
She’d be the first to tell you she’s not perfect, and I watched her cry out daily to be a better wife, better mom, better sister, better friend, and most importantly, a more-surrendered follower of King Jesus. But, she’s best at not assuming all is well if the Instagram filter looks right and full calendar keeps you busy instead of crying in bed. (which side note- both can coexist)
I cling to the deep-rooted hope that dwells in my soul, the one that she taught me early and often. Jesus surrendered to His Father’s plan. So will we.
And I will see her again.
But on October 17th, I’ll remember the sadness. I’ll remember the pain of those two words. I’ll remember the way we held one another. I’ll remember the tears. I’ll remember the day that changed me. I’ll remember the day the battle began. I’ll remember that October 17th defined the disease, started the treatments, and eventually took her from me.
Right now, the pain is present. The flashbacks take my breath away. The longing for her voice and her simple, “how are you?” grows daily. The sadness that no one here knows me like she does leaves me unbearably, suffocatingly lonely.
But I’ll also remember she fought the good fight. I’ll remember the people that rallied, prayed, and served. I’ll remember that in her 56 years, she brought so many to know the Lord, including me, by quietly obeying Him day by day. I’ll remember how it felt to have the very best of best friends. I’ll remember she fought for me hard- in words and in prayer. I’ll remember the beauty of my mom. I’ll remember that we are two bodies and one brain, separated for the time being.
xox
ellie
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