One Year
2 min read

One Year

One Year
Photo by Dorrell Tibbs / Unsplash

I miss my mother.

365ish long days ago, my mother, Kathy, lost her battle with lung cancer.

I distinctly remember the day that my brother, David, called me and told me that Mom was really sick. I broke down crying in the office, and then drove with my wife to my childhood home. That was a bad day.

I remember every chemotherapy session that I could attend. I couldn’t help her with the pain and sickness, but I could be there. Those were bad days.

I remember the week of my 29th birthday, where she was diagnosed with having a tumor in her brain that needed to be cut out. That surgery was successful, so it was a marginally less bad day.

I remember the moment that we were all in the hospital together — my mother, my brother, and I — and we got the really bad news: the cancer isn’t stopping, and maybe treatment isn’t the best option anymore. That was a bad day.

I remember having to make the decision to move my mother to Hospice because there wasn’t anything more we could do for her. That was a really bad day.

I remember every friend and family member coming to Hospice to say their good-byes, and to share some grief with us. Those were bad days.

I remember my uncle, Kevin, calling me at 6:40am on June 1, 2015, telling me that Mom was gone. That was the worst day of all.

It was a rough 10 months of memories, but that’s not all I remember.

I remember my mother picking up the phone call every time I called, no matter what time of day it was.

I remember calling her nearly every time I was driving home just to talk to her.

I remember her face the day that Cindy and I told her that we were pregnant with Mattie.

I remember her attending every wrestling match, every track meet, and every baseball game.

I remember her becoming a close friend as I grew older.

I remember her making a comfortable and loving home for our family, no matter where that house was actually located.

I remember dancing with her at my wedding.

I remember her loving me.

I miss my mother.