My Last Act of Service

My mother, Lena circa 94' (Bahamas)

"Where you going? No one knows."

"Things are changing...I'm still here"

"Why'd you have to leave, why'd you have to go?"

Those words still stop me in my tracks.

There was a time I couldn't even hear the opening notes of Cleo Sol's Promises without feeling the gaping hole in my chest rip wide open again.

Music has a crazy way of imprinting itself upon our lives. For me, Cleo Sol's Promises will always be linked to Exit 91. Several times a week, I'd make that drive down the Garden State Parkway to visit my terminally ill mother. That drive became its own ritual of grief. My brother was the one who introduced me to the term anticipatory grief. It's the grief that arrives before the death does. The mourning that begins while someone you love is still here. Ive never been able to fully explain what it felt like to reside in my own body during that time. The best way I can describe it is that I was physically present but emotionally suspended.

Last month, my mom would've turned 58.

Since birthdays have a way of inviting reflection, I find myself returning to the same memory: a stretch of time where things seem to feel slow and fast at once - the two months leading up to her passing.

Mommy spent her life as a nurse. She cared for people during some of the hardest moments of their lives. Her 35+ years of experience gave her an understanding of illness, suffering, and medicine.

So when she was diagnosed with lung cancer, we did what we thought we were supposed to do. She underwent treatment, completed it successfully, and we were told everything looked good. Scan after scan remained stable. Immunotherapy continued. She even happily rang the bell, marking end of treatment. Life slowly began to resemble something close to normal again.

But in a glimpse, everything changed.

After a minor car accident led to a concussion screening, we incidentally discovered that her cancer had not only returned but already metastasized. Less than two months later, she was gone.

Even at this point, no one ever sat us down and gave us a clear life expectancy. We heard things like, “If treatment continues, we can extend her life.” Looking back, I think my mom held tightly to those words. Hope? Denial? Maybe it was both. I, on the other hand, researched everything.

I knew what metastasis often meant. So, I knew our time was probably much shorter than anyone wanted to admit.

Having worked in risk management most of my life, it's second nature to me to immediately want to prepare. I wanted to ask about her wishes. I wanted to talk about medical decisions. I wanted to make sure nothing important went unsaid. More than anything, I wanted to spend whatever time we had left, truly connecting with the woman who had been my anchor in this world. But a realization brought me to understand, my mom wasn't me.

My girl was the Cancer of all Cancers - deeply sentimental and emotional, yet incredibly stoic, strong, and resilient. Over the years, I became witness to how she would quietly carry the hard things. During this time, I realized she wasn’t looking for conversations about dying. She needed the freedom to keep living the life she believed she still had.

So, I made a decision to stop trying to prepare her for death. I never forced conversations about medical proxies or end-of-life planning. I didn’t push her to acknowledge what I suspected. Instead, I met her where she was.

She most wanted to talk about everyday things, what she was watching on TV, or what to eat next; which often included a milkshake. This was her call for normalcy, so I gave her normalcy.

It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

Kleenex became my passenger, quite literally. I'd cry and pray, cry and pray as Promises filled my speakers. Speaking of promises, there was always that moment right before walking through her front door I had to get it together. I did this because I had made one promise to myself:

She would never have to carry the weight of my grief, while she was carrying her illness.

Looking back now, I realize that was my last act of service to my mother.

It was giving her the grace to shape her experience in the manner of her choosing. I chose her comfort over my own need for certainty, and that choice still stings at times.

There were moments when I wondered if I should have pushed harder. I did say to her one day, "Mom, I care deeply about all this and don't want you to think otherwise because I know you haven't seen much emotion from me." She replied by saying "You're my daughter. I know you, and I understand you more than you know." And me knowing her the way I did, I understood much more than what she actually spoke in this moment.  That was all I needed to continue as I had instinctively been.

Love isn’t always giving someone what we think they need. Often, it's about recognizing their needs, even when its uncomfortable for us.

This experience taught me that there is no single “right” way to die. Some people need every conversation. Some need every document in place. Others need hope until their final breath. None of those approaches are wrong. They are simply human.

Becoming aware of the gap between a terminally ill person's preferences and their reality is part of what inspired me to become certified as a death doula last year. With mom's recent birthday, the timing seemed right to let the world in on what I feel is part of my calling. Something born from her life and her passing.

Today, I have the privilege of walking alongside individuals and families navigating terminal illness and the end of life. Sometimes that means helping people have the conversations they desperately want to have or checking things off their "bucket list." Other times, it means helping families understand that love can also look like restraint.

Death taught me that presence is often more powerful than preparation.

So this summer, as I reflect on what would have been mom's 58th birthday, I won’t remember only the difficult times. I’ll remember the gifts of grief and the privilege of loving her in the language she needed most. And I hope that in the end, she felt safe and deeply loved.

Still growing in grief- Ash

.