Lost Both Parents to Cancer; It’s Taught Me How to Grieve

“So, Christine, I’ve got cancer,” my mother calmly told me over the phone one February morning.

I have no idea what I said next.

All I can remember is what felt like lava slowly, painfully rising from the pit of my stomach up to my chest, where it just sat bubbling, searching desperately for somewhere to escape my body. A sensation I hadn’t experienced for over 15 years, when I received a similar phone call from my father.

What followed was the start of my double life, in which I split my time between my home in San Diego and Dublin, 5,199 miles away and the place my mom called home.

Her treatment was supposed to be chemotherapy and maybe radiation before making a full recovery, but she never even got to that stage. She became an inpatient not long after that February phone call, and the following summer, on July 14, 2024, she died.

My mother’s death was — and still is — a total shock

The thing about cancer is that you know death might be coming long before it arrives, or in my mom’s case, not long at all. I tell myself this “advanced notice” is a good thing, a coping mechanism if you will.

Before she got sick at 69, my mother was the epitome of good health — playing tennis and hiking the Irish Wicklow mountains weekly. The thought that something could harm her wasn’t even on my radar.

I had already lost one parent to cancer. The made-up rules of life that lived in my head said it simply was not possible to lose the other, and to the same disease, no less.

The call that changed everything

I was heading out the door when “mom” popped up on my phone. After weeks of a raspy voice and a doctor’s appointment warning that “something sinister” was at play, my mom finally had a specialist consultation scheduled.

I knew the call was coming, and unlike the far too many other times that I screened her call — how I wish now I had answered the phone to her more — this was one call I answered before it even got through the first ring.

As soon as I picked up, I knew something was very wrong.

Maybe it was her calm voice, procrastinating sharing the specialist’s update by asking me how the weather was that day.

Like me, my mom would often worry about the silliest of things that she’d dissect from every angle possible. Yet here she was calling me after an important appointment, sounding as calm as I’d ever heard her.

Could everything be OK? No, because if it were, I’m sure the first thing she would’ve said was how bad she felt for wasting everyone’s time.

I gave my mom a few minutes of grace when it came to the chit-chat. I too, wanted to pretend for a few minutes longer that everything was fine, normal, and no one was dying anytime soon. That’s when she told me the news: it was esophageal cancer.

My double life between California and Dublin

I’d spend three weeks in Ireland before escaping to California for a week, where I could avoid the pain of seeing my mom go through the symptoms that come with that horrible disease.

Life would start to feel normal again, but reality would always sneak in. I’d see a message pop up on our family WhatsApp group — “Hey mom, heading into the hospital now” from my sister, or “Can you bring in tissues?” from my mom. Painful reminders that I wasn’t there.

Once my San Diego “break” was up, it was back to my Dublin life where I had quickly developed a new routine. Every morning, I would drive to the hospital and pick up two iced lattes (or hot, depending on the Irish weather that day) for my mom and me to enjoy together.

My mom couldn’t actually drink the coffee I bought her. She had a tracheostomy and no ability to swallow, so she would just sip the latte, slush it around her mouth, and spit it out. But she absolutely loved it. Don’t tell my siblings, but I’m 99% sure it was the highlight of her day.

We were simply doing what normal moms and daughters do — catching up over a coffee. I probably had more coffee catch-ups with her in those four-ish months than I had in years. Realizing that leaves a pit in my stomach.

My mom passed away less than five months after that February phone call

After the funeral, I returned to San Diego feeling relieved that I could settle back into a normal life. I could unpack my suitcase, and for the first time in months, put it away.

That initial relief lasted for a few weeks, but my birthday hit a month later, and not waking up to a sweet birthday card or text from my mom was one of the first moments of reality setting in.

My husband tells me that grief comes in waves — sometimes it’s a small ripple that comes and goes, oftentimes when I’m not expecting it.

Just the other day, I opened a Clarins moisturizer and boom, the grief hit. My mom used Clarins for as long as I can remember, and the smell of it took me right back to the master bathroom of her house in Dublin, where I’d bug her to borrow it while I was visiting because I would always forget to bring my own. I paused to take her in for that short moment, and then it was over.

Sometimes the waves are the type a surfer dreams of — long-lasting with a killer crash. Great for surfers, not so much for us grievers. You have no idea how long the grief is going to last, and you can’t get out of it. You just have to wait for the crash to come.

I’ve listened to Calm’s grief podcast series, I’ve read books like Edith Eger’s “The Gift” exploring how to overcome grief, but there’s no healing it. The sad reality is that there isn’t a pretty bow you can wrap around death. You can’t “hope” because the worst has already happened, but you can appreciate what you had.

And if you’re one of the lucky ones, you just have to pick up the phone next time you see “mom” pop up.