Something I’ve noticed with time in my grief journey is that I have a stronger ability to say, “No thanks, not right now,” to my grief when it tries to sneak up on me. For example, sometimes when I’m driving, I’ll suddenly remember that Mom is TRULY gone and never coming back. I can feel my body starting to remember the moments of her death, and I can sometimes turn it off because I’m driving, or out in public, or whatever.
Yesterday, I ate a grapefruit.
It’s one of my favourite fruits, and it was a juicy, delicious one. But as I ate it, I remembered my mom reading over the paperwork for one of the clinical trial medicines she was hoping to try to prolong her life. One of the pages explained that she could never eat grapefruit while taking it.
I remember the wave of grief that washed over her. I told her I’d go out and buy her one right then so she could enjoy it because, in the grand scheme of things, not eating grapefruit is a pretty small price to pay. She agreed, and we continued reading.
Unfortunately, not eating grapefruit ended up being the least of Mom’s concerns. The tumours in her lungs grew so quickly that she was hospitalized just days later, and then she died.
As I sat eating that grapefruit yesterday, one memory led to another.
I remembered the day Mom was hospitalized. She was struggling to breathe so badly. I wanted to take her to the hospital days before, but Mom knew that if she went, she would no longer be eligible for the life-prolonging experimental clinical trial medicine. So she pushed through. She was SO tough. She persevered while struggling to breathe with her oxygen machine cranked.
On that last day before Mom finally agreed to let us call an ambulance, I sat beside her holding the oxygen tubing in her nose, adjusting it so she could get as much oxygen as possible. She was too weak to even lift her hands to move it herself.
In the moment, the adrenaline was pumping. I wasn’t thinking about how terrifying it was. I was just doing what I needed to do to help keep my mom alive.
But looking back, it was so, so, so awful to witness someone you love gasping for air. No matter what she did, she couldn’t get any more. Her lungs had less and less room for oxygen because the tumours were taking over.
Four and a half years later, I don’t relive those moments every day anymore. Most of the time, when grief shows up, I can gently tell it, “Not right now.”
Yesterday, while I ate a grapefruit, it didn’t listen.
It’s funny how grief works sometimes. It doesn’t always arrive on birthdays, anniversaries, or holidays. Sometimes it shows up because of a piece of fruit. One ordinary moment can open the door to memories you haven’t visited in a long time.
There are memories from those final days that I wish I could erase forever. Watching Mom fight for every breath is one of them.
But I’ll probably think about her every time I eat a grapefruit for a long time.
I miss you, Mom.
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