Mother loss is a nightmare I never expected to experience in my mid-thirties, and losing my mom to a three-week battle with cancer changed me in ways that I didn’t know were possible. It’s a story I share not because it’s easy but because it’s real. Inevitably, we will all lose someone we love, and it will rip apart our world. My mom, Sharon, wasn’t just my parent; she was my cheerleader, anchor, and guide. When I lost her, a piece of me died —but I also found a strength I didn’t know was deep within me.
February 2, 2021. That’s the date etched into my memory forever. It was the day we learned my mom had cancer. I’ll never forget that conversation over the phone. Cancer. The word felt like a punch in the gut. I could hear the fear in her voice. Her doctor told her she would be fine and get through it because she was otherwise healthy.
My mom was strong—stronger than anyone I knew. Even as the diagnosis sank in, she reassured me with quiet confidence, as if to say, “We’ll get through this together.” But deep down, I was terrified.
It’s almost like we both knew intuitively about her fate.
A week after learning of her cancer, from February 9 to 14, 2021, my mom had her first hospital stay. It was a whirlwind. One moment, we were navigating setting up appointments and treatments, and the next, I flew across the country to sit at home because it was pre-vaccine during a global pandemic, waiting for answers and her discharge.
My Uncle Stu picked her up from the hospital and brought her home. She looked frail, colourless, and ill. They should have never let her out of the hospital, but selfishly, I’m glad they did because of what was to come.
February 19, 2021. Mom was taken by ambulance to the hospital with her floss, tweezers, and overnight bag in tow. Her pain meds were no longer working, and she was progressively feeling more pain. As paramedics rolled her away, we locked eyes, knowing that this was the last time she would feel the fresh air or freedom on her face.
I went to the dog park with Uncle Stu to pass the time, anxiously waiting for the doctor to call me with an update. The call came, “Your mom has pancreatic cancer, and her body is covered in tumours. The only thing we can do is make her comfortable. She has two weeks left to live.”
I collapsed to the floor, screaming in pain as my heart shattered into a million pieces. Mom was about to die, and there was nothing I could do to change this.
I spent every moment at her side, trying to soak up her presence, wisdom, and light. I asked her about her final wishes, and it was to be buried in the Hebrew Sick Cemetary with the rest of the family. Said she angrily shouted, “But don’t you dare bury me beside your father,” who was terminal at this time. I couldn’t help but laugh and ensure her wish.
We talked about everything and nothing—our favourite memories, the little things we’d miss. She told me how proud she was of me, and I clung to those words like a lifeline. I wanted to be worthy of that pride and carry on her legacy in a way that honoured the incredible woman she was.
Losing her felt like losing the ground beneath my feet. There’s no way to prepare for when someone you love is no longer there. Her house was quiet, the days emptier, and my heart heavier than I thought possible.
Grief isn’t just sadness. It’s the silence where laughter used to be, the emptiness of reaching for your phone to call someone who isn’t there anymore. It’s the weight of everything you wish you could have said or done differently.
In the weeks and months that followed, I felt lost. But as I navigated the pain, I also felt something stirring inside me—a quiet determination to keep going, to honour my mom by living fully, even if it felt impossible.
I started sharing my story—not just the loss but the lessons. My mom always believed in the power of supporting others, connection, and community, and I realized that by opening up, I could help others feel less alone in their grief.
My mom’s legacy is so much more than the cancer that took her. She taught me resilience—not by being perfect but by showing up daily with love, compassion, and courage. She faced the hard stuff head-on, and I admired her for that.
I strive to carry my mom’s light into the world daily. When I speak about resilience, help someone navigate their loss, and share her story, I feel her with me. She’s in every conversation, every project, and every act of kindness I try to put into the world.
This experience was the hardest thing I’ve ever faced, but it also gave me a deeper understanding of what it means to live fully. Her strength lives on in me, and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make her proud.
If you’re grieving, I want you to know that you’re not alone. The pain can feel unbearable, but it’s also a reminder of the love you shared. The deeper our love, the more profound our grief. That love and grief don’t go away—they stay with you, shaping, guiding, and reminding you of what really matters. Sharing this story has helped me heal my heart. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. You are RESILIENT A.F.!
Are you ready to share your story of RESILIENCE? You can do that HERE.