Nothing Compares to You
It’s been so lonely without her here—like that Sinead O’Connor song. I know it was written for a lost lover, but it loops in my head whenever I think of my mom. When you’re grieving someone, time doesn’t really help, does it? It just becomes a measure of how long it’s been since you last held their hand, touched their hair, or heard their voice.
In my mom’s case, it had been a while before the day she passed that I actually heard her voice. I think the last real conversation we had was the day she called to make sure I understood what the doctor was saying—when he told us there was nothing more they could do but make her comfortable. I wasn’t able to be there in person, so they patched me in via FaceTime. I had to turn it off before the call ended because I couldn’t hold it together. That moment might’ve been the worst part of her illness—second only to the moment she slipped away in my arms.
No! There has to be something we can do. You’re the doctor! I wanted to scream at him, reach through the screen and shake him. I wanted him to understand: this was my mother. She was a warrior. She couldn’t lose to this monster—this cruel thing called glioblastoma multiforme. God, what an unforgiving disease.
My mother was HOME – it existed within her – and now that she’s gone I’ll never be able to truly return. I’m untethered, yet I’m supposed to moor my own children to the world. It’s baffling to think that I’m their stability when so many days I feel like a crumbling pile of sand. I wonder if my mother ever felt this way – washed away by the tide and rebuilt again by the children the next day. There are so many things I wish I could ask her. – What’s Your Grief?
Yes, I’m surrounded by love and support from family and friends—but they’re not her. And while I know some people never had the chance to know a good mom—or any mom—I did. I had that gift. I knew her. I learned from her. I wanted my kids to do the same. I know exactly what I’ve lost. And for that, my heart will always carry a scar.
Still, I feel her with me. Every day. When I’m anxious, I hear her voice: You are my daughter. You can do this. Just breathe. I hear it in the wind, in the fall of leaves, in the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. Just breathe.
A while back, I was helping clean up at Girl Scouts after my daughter finished carving a pumpkin. I reached for a towel, and there on the counter was a covered plate with a note: For Joanne F. That was my mom. I knew, in that quiet and simple moment, she was there with me.
