4,356 days. That’s how many days have elapsed since I found myself in the hospital’s emergency room with my mother, overhearing discussions about her admission. Her cancer had escalated to a level where treatment was no longer effective. The oncologist opted to discontinue her chemotherapy to manage her lymphedema, but soon after, she developed an infection in her port that spread to her heart.
In low voices, the doctors reassured us that there was a possibility of recovery, claiming the infection wasn’t severe and that she could return home sooner than expected. Yet, deep down, we all understood the truth. Her weary eyes revealed a different reality. She was exhausted and resigned. After losing my father to lung cancer just two years prior, she had run out of the will to fight.
Sitting beside her, I held her hand as she spoke. There was no anger in her voice, only sadness. She lamented not being there to witness my brother and me grow up, to see her future grandchildren. “Grandchildren?” I thought, tears brimming in my eyes. “I’m nowhere near ready for that. I just want my mom here with me…”
She passed away the following evening. I had left the hospital the night before, utterly drained and in need of rest. She was upset that I was going; she wanted me to stay. In frustration, she expressed her feelings, calling me selfish. I assured her I would return in the morning for more conversations. But when I arrived the next day, she was unresponsive, and within 12 hours, she was gone.
4,356 days.
4,356 days ago, I was just 10 years old. It was 1994, the end of fourth grade. Bill Clinton was delivering his first State of the Union address, O.J. Simpson’s DNA had just linked him to a murder scene, and the music world was mourning Kurt Cobain. We lived in a two-flat in Niles, running around our neighborhood from sunrise to sunset, drinking from the sprinkler, and getting news from the newspaper while paging my dad to call home.
4,356 days.
It’s been that long since I last heard my mother’s voice or felt her gentle touch. My children are bickering again, and it feels overwhelming. When will they stop being so difficult? When will my older son cease his endless chatter? He constantly seeks my attention, asking questions. And when will his brother stop screaming? Isn’t he supposed to learn to talk soon? Life would be so much simpler if he could express himself with words instead of shrieks. Soon, my oldest, Lucas, will start kindergarten at the end of August. He’s transforming into a young man, shedding his baby face and resembling his father more each day. Almost daily, he climbs into my lap for a hug. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he reassures me. “I’ll always hug you, even when I’m taller than you. And when I come home from school, you won’t be lonely because we can chat then.”
4,783 days.
That’s how many days I have left until Lucas turns 18 and steps into adulthood. What will life look like then? Will he and his brother still be squabbling daily? (Spoiler alert: probably.) While there are times I wish these fleeting moments would slow down, allowing me to cherish their childhood a bit longer, I also dread the day they leave home.
This article originally appeared on June 15, 2020.
For more insights, check out this related post on binge-watching, or explore expert advice on this topic. Additionally, consider visiting March of Dimes for valuable resources regarding pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary:
Reflecting on the passage of 4,356 days since losing my mother, the narrative juxtaposes the bittersweet memories of childhood with the challenges of parenting today. As I navigate my children’s constant bickering and my oldest preparing for school, I am reminded of the importance of cherishing these fleeting moments while grappling with the inevitability of change.