I Love You, Mom.

I can’t quite wrap my head around this new reality I’m living in. She’s gone. My sweet, caring, strong, thoughtful, beautiful mother is gone. None of this seems real. To be honest, I don’t think any of it has sunk in yet.

Over the past six years, my mom fought a courageous battle with multiple myeloma, a cancer that affects the plasma cells and ultimately the bone marrow. She put up a long, hard fight — from the diagnosis, the monthly scans and weekly bloodwork to the changes in diet & lifestyle, countless drugs & treatment options and more trips to MGH than I can remember. I always knew my mom was strong, but throughout the course of this disease, she’s shown us time and time again the true meaning of that word.

My mom was very private about her disease; she kept it from family & friends alike. There were times she received bad test results or other less-than-pleasant news and would remain silent for weeks on end, impervious to our questions and pleas to share what was bothering her. She would eventually open up and share with us what was going on — and those conversations were never easy. My mom never, ever wanted us to worry — even when it was abundantly clear that the disease was progressing and taking its toll on her tiny, fragile body.

As time wore on, our everyday “normal” changed. Gone were the days of long walks together in our neighborhood with the dog, squat contests in the kitchen or complaints about her incompetent boss. Instead, these ordinary activities became a distant memory, replaced by long stints inside/on the couch, twice-weekly trips to MGH for blood & platelets and painfully hard conversations about the reality of her disease. The myeloma was winning.

Over the past three months, I’ve cried myself to sleep more times than I can count. I’ve stared at my computer screen at work, losing hours at a time, just thinking about what my life was going to be like once this nightmare fully reared its ugly head. I’ve made plans with friends, only to realize that I was never really present and spent most of that time lost in my own thoughts.

My memory is completely shot; my brain feels foggy and jumbled. I can barely find the words to string full sentences together, often stuttering through them, barely getting my point across.

I wake up every morning with what feels like the world’s worst hangover, only to realize I haven’t had more than a sip of wine in weeks. My head is pounding from dehydration, no matter how much water I drink. My eyes are puffy and the bags underneath get larger and more pronounced each day.

None of this seems real.

Multiple myeloma is an incurable disease, though highly manageable in most cases. Some people are diagnosed and go on to live normal lives for ten, fifteen, twenty years. Unfortunately, that was not the case for my mom. At first it was every six months or so — she’d have a new pain point or a lump that needed to be radiated. Off she’d go to MGH to discuss it with her doctor, and they’d start her on a new drug or clinical trial. It would work for a bit, and then she’d be back to square one. This went from every six months, down to every three months, two months… and ultimately, after nearly four years straight of trying different drugs and trials, my mom’s body stopped responding to treatment altogether.

The past few months have been both the longest and shortest of my life. Peter & I have been home in Peabody nearly every weekend, trying to squeeze in every last minute we could get with my sweet mother. The disease progressed faster than any of us imagined it would, and I think the decision to go on hospice care was the hardest my mother ever had to make.

On one hand, I am so thankful that she is no longer suffering. This disease took every last ounce of strength she had, and it broke my heart to have to watch her fight so. damn. hard. every single day.

On the other hand, I (selfishly) never wanted to let her go. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. There are so many things I still want to tell her, so many questions I still want to ask. I honestly don’t know how I’m going to move forward in this life without her.

. Who will I call on my walks to and from work?

. Who will worry (needlessly) that I’ve made it to my destination safely?

. Who will willingly (happily!) taste test my healthy recipes?

. Who will be there to celebrate each and every achievement and milestone?

. Who will I turn to for advice?

. Who will spoil my kids endlessly and teach them all the things that grandparents are supposed to teach their grandkids?

The next few weeks are going to be some of the hardest I think I’ve ever had to live. and the only way I’m going to make it through is by adopting the advice that my mom stood by for the last few months of her life: just take it one day at a time.

If I’ve learned one thing over the past few months, it’s that we have some truly incredible people in our lives and are surrounded by so much love & support.

To every friend, family member and acquaintance that has reached out — thank you. Your kind words mean the world.

To the strong women in my life — my grandma, my aunts, Peter’s mom, Jo Jo, countless friends — you are amazing. Thank you for providing me with strength when I lacked it on my own, and for sticking by my side throughout this heartbreaking ordeal.

To the three most important men in my life — my dad, Michael, Peter — without you, I would not have been able to make it through this summer. We all still have a very long road ahead and will need to lean on each other now more than ever. Thank you for being my rock(s).

All that aside, no one in life quite compares to your own mom. She will be on my mind every minute of every day. I am so thankful to have had so many wonderful years with her; I have no doubt become the woman I am today because of her guidance, support and love. There is so much I want to thank her for — but I kinda have a feeling that she already knew. She knew me better than I knew myself, and I’m positive that she understood just how much I loved and appreciated her.

She was my rock, the first person I would go to in any situation. Heck, she was everybody’s rock. My mom always knew what to say; she always had advice to give and could help you with even the hardest of decisions.

It’s going to be a long time before we all get used to this new life without her. I’m fairly certain that we are all just going through the motions right now; the hardest pain has yet to sink in. But all we can do is take it one day at a time — I know for certain that’s the advice my mom would be giving us right now.

I love you, Mom. ❤

xo