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According to the American Cancer Society, approximately 600 adolescents, aged 15 to 19, lose their lives to cancer each year. In 2017, my daughter, Mia, was one of those unfortunate statistics.
Mia battled illness for four and a half years. Despite the progression of her cancer, I held onto the belief that she would overcome it. I thought her fierce determination to survive would lead to a breakthrough, a miraculous treatment that would shrink her tumors and restore her health.
When it became clear that a miracle wasn’t forthcoming, I shifted my focus to ensuring that her final days were as peaceful as possible. Her passing turned my life upside down. It shattered my perception of the world and left me struggling to navigate a reality that felt utterly nonsensical. For a time, it stripped me of my ability to experience joy.
Living without Mia was something I never envisioned. When I allowed myself to entertain the thought of her absence—her empty room, my empty days—I recoiled in horror. But the unthinkable happened; I awoke one morning to a world devoid of Mia.
I had to rise, do laundry, and attempt to function for my husband and my surviving daughter. I took care of Mia’s dog and fed her aging hamster, a creature that, to my dismay, had outlived its expected lifespan by nearly three times. Everyday tasks became a challenge as I moved through life with a piece of my heart missing. Those initial days without Mia felt like a cruel affront.
In my grief, I felt an overwhelming urge to tell anyone I encountered that my daughter had passed away. “Can’t you see?” I wanted to shout, “None of this matters because my daughter is gone!” This sentiment encompassed everything—work, life, the latest season of “Game of Thrones,” and beyond.
Sometimes, I still find myself sharing Mia’s story with strangers—bank tellers, new acquaintances, even my dentist. I needed them to know. My child is gone; that reality is undeniable.
After losing her, I struggled to maintain my work. I spent my days walking outside, observing birds, and searching for signs of Mia, hoping she was somehow trying to reach out. My consulting business continued only because I relied on subcontractors while I floated through my days in a haze of grief.
Those who knew me were aware of Mia’s passing; I had chronicled her journey for years. I shared her story with anyone who would listen, which made for awkward exchanges.
Over time, I learned to rein in the impulse to share every detail about Mia, but I will never stop saying her name. When someone asks how many children I have, I respond without hesitation. “I have two daughters,” I say, “one living and one who succumbed to cancer.”
It’s likely more challenging for them to hear than it is for me to say it.
While my ability to share Mia’s story feels like progress, I still bear the weight of my loss. Over the past two years, I’ve gradually reached a place where I sometimes feel okay, but the wound remains far from healed.
Part of my compulsion to share Mia’s story stems from my difficulty in fully believing that it all transpired. Before her illness, Mia was a vibrant and healthy child. She had never been hospitalized and was terrified of needles and doctors. She adored cats and swimming and had a bright future ahead of her.
I had no idea how fortunate I was before cancer invaded our lives. My assumptions about cancer, terminal illness, and grief were starkly naive until this darkness enveloped me.
I haven’t completely emerged from despair, and I may never. People I knew before Mia’s illness have drifted away; I have withdrawn from them as well. I can’t blame them; I am a different person now, and the version of myself that existed before Mia died has also faded.
I am now a more anxious mother, fearful of losing Emily, my surviving daughter. Every morning, when I drop her off at school, I push away the terrifying images of violence that threaten to disrupt my peace.
When she complains of pain—a headache, a sore hip—I can’t help but picture tumors invading her body. In less than two years, she will be driving, and I’ll have to fight off visions of horrific accidents.
I want to shield myself from further loss. I yearn for understanding from others about the burden I carry and hope they can help me bear it. I wish they could accept that I will never return to my former self; a piece of me is irrevocably gone. This experience is shared by grieving parents everywhere, and I wish we could have a reprieve from additional pain.
I know life doesn’t work that way. I was once blissfully ignorant, unable to fathom that either of my children could die, despite the evidence surrounding me.
Now, I’m more selective about whom I share Mia’s story with; I choose those who may remain in my life for longer than a fleeting moment. I share not because small talk or mundane issues matter to me, but because I want them to understand my transformed self, my fractured identity, and hope they will accept this version of me. Some do. Grief often simmers beneath the surface for many of us.
Finding someone willing to walk this lonely road with me brings a sense of comfort. Sharing our grief makes it a little more bearable, which is why I feel compelled to tell others about my child’s death.
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In summary, the journey through grief is profoundly personal and often isolating. Mia’s story is a testament to the fragility of life and the enduring love a mother has for her child. The path forward is laden with challenges, but through shared experiences and understanding, it can also be a source of solace and connection.