Five days before I was diagnosed with cancer, my mom had a heart attack.
Because apparently life decided we were doing everything all at once.
Thankfully, my brother was home with her when it happened. She lost consciousness, which is one of those phrases that sounds clinical until it’s your person—and then it’s just… terrifying.
Instant fear.
She needed a pacemaker, but she wasn’t strong enough for surgery right away. So we waited. Days that felt longer than they should.
And somehow, in the middle of all of that, she knew I was waiting on my own test results.
She prayed for me…from a hospital bed.
That’s my mom.
When I got my diagnosis, I hesitated. I went back and forth on whether I should tell her. She had enough on her plate—did she really need this too?
But she asked for an update.
So I gave her an honest one.
Still not entirely sure if it was the “right” choice—but it was the real one.
Before the MRI results, my Mom said I should go straight to a double mastectomy. No hesitation. No waiting.
At the time, that felt extreme. Like something I hoped I’d never have to seriously consider.
And yet…here I am.
Now, instead of fear, I hear her words differently.
Not as something to avoid—but as something that protects me.
Something that keeps me here.
There’s a strange kind of gratitude in that shift.
My cancer is stage 1. And what I’ve learned is that this particular type is often found much later—stage 3 or 4. It’s described as “sneaky.” It spreads quietly, almost like it’s moving in places you can’t quite track.
Someone told me it behaves like an octopus.
Which feels both oddly specific and…completely accurate.
The MRI proved that. It hid where nothing else could see it.
So while the diagnosis brought fear—it also brought something else at the exact same time.
Relief.
Gratitude that I found it when I did.
While all of this was unfolding, my mom had moved from the hospital to a rehab center to regain strength after her surgery. It wasn’t her first time there. The past few years had brought more health challenges than anyone would ask for.
But if you knew my mom, you knew this—she was a fighter.
Always had been.
And I realized, sitting in all of this, that a big part of my own fight comes from her. And from my dad.
Good genes, just…in a different category.
I was going to need that strength.
Not long after my surgery was scheduled, my mom was back in the hospital. At first, it sounded simple—a UTI. Something she’d bounce back from in a couple of days.
I didn’t let fear take over that time.
I truly believed she’d be okay.
Then they found more fluid—her congestive heart failure complicating things again. Her stay would be longer.
Still, I thought—she’s done this before. She’ll do it again.
And then, everything shifted.
The next day, she started refusing treatment.
My brother called on his way there, and I told him to let me know if we should come.
Less than an hour later, Garrin and I were in the car.
By the time we got there, she was on oxygen, back on medication, stabilized again.
And when she woke up and saw me—she smiled.
A full, real, there-you-are kind of smile.
That moment?
I’ll hold onto that one forever.
Because not long after we left, she removed her oxygen again. Refused care again.
And we went back.
This time, fear didn’t just show up—it settled in.
Heavy.
Loud.
Suffocating in a way I didn’t expect.
I remember thinking—am I really about to lose my mom while I’m trying to fight this myself?
And the hardest part was this:
The fight in her…was fading.
The woman who had always pushed through, always kept going—she was ready.
She told us, over and over, that it was time. That we needed to let her go.
And there is nothing easy about hearing that.
Nothing.
But loving her meant listening.
It meant respecting her.
So we did the hardest thing you can do.
We let her go.
I said goodbye to my mom that day.
And somehow, even in that moment, there was gratitude.
Gratitude that she was no longer in pain.
Gratitude that she was finally at peace.
Gratitude that I got to be there…that I got to say goodbye.
Because not everyone gets that.
And that perspective stays with you.
Grief is a strange thing.
It shows up in waves, in quiet moments, in the middle of unrelated thoughts. It sits heavy some days, lighter on others.
And going through something like this—while also navigating your own health—it adds a layer I don’t think you can fully prepare for.
It’s been 17 days.
There are still tears. Still heaviness.
But also…gratitude.
At a recent appointment, my family doctor said something that stuck with me.
He told me that fear and excitement actually trigger the same response in your body—same system, just interpreted differently.
So his advice?
Flip it.
Now, to be clear—I am not excited for surgery.
Let’s not get carried away.
But I am excited for what comes after.
For the cancer to be gone.
For this chapter to close.
For moving forward.
And that feels like something I can hold onto.
I’m grateful for my surgical team. For a hospital I trust. For insurance that makes this care possible.
I’m grateful for the people showing up for me—my husband, my family, my friends.
My tribe.
And then—something unexpected.
A new connection. A kindred spirit, just three weeks ahead of me in this same process without the cancer diagnosis.
Like a flashlight in the dark…showing me the way forward.
And even though my mom won’t be here physically for this part…she’s still here.
In the way I think.
In the strength I lean on.
In the quiet reminders of who she was.
One of the last gifts I received from her was a breast cancer bear.
Which feels like the most “mom” thing ever—taking care of me, even on her way out.
Between loss and fear…there is still gratitude.
You just have to look for it.
And some days, that takes a little more effort than others.
But it’s there.
