I almost lost my mom to cancer treatment, and I need to talk about it.

A cancer diagnosis is one of the most ominous experiences.

You never quite know what it really means, where it will go, or the level to which the experience will be like.

Some cancer journeys end with a celebratory “ringing of the bell” to signify the last day of treatment.

Others don’t have a bell to ring, because their treatment will never end.

Their cancer can go into remission, but because it can always come back, treatment continues indefinitely.

Unfortunately, my mom has that kind of cancer.

On December 17, 2021 we learned that my mom’s cancer was no longer in remission and that it filled 80% of her bone marrow.

As a result, it was highly recommended by her oncology team that she be admitted to the hospital immediately.

While I wished for us to have a “normal” Christmas still, my mom’s philosophy has always been to “get it done yesterday.” And one thing about my mom is that when she has her mind made up, you just cannot stop her.

She was admitted the following Tuesday.

The first week of my mom’s cancer treatment I would describe as mostly lighthearted, as bizarre as that sounds.

We had been through this before back in 2016 and she came out on top, so we were optimistic she would do it again.

My stepdad, brother, and I spaced our daily visits out to make sure someone was always there during the 10 am-8 pm visiting hours, and I was thankful that it was so easy for me to see her daily since I worked for myself and her hospital was just a one mile walk from my home.

She was hooked up to chemo as we talked, shared laughs, and worked our way through the impressive hospital menu.

When she was craving something a little different, I picked up Portillo’s or Greek Islands and would visit with her as she enjoyed getting a taste of Chicago’s finest. We watched Inside Edition each day at 3 pm and Jeopardy at 3:30.

In off-hours she enjoyed reading on her Kindle or responding to her roughly forty text messages a night (I’m not even exaggerating, my mom has so many friends.)

Each day that first week was light.

We did celebrate Christmas in the hospital, which unfortunately wasn’t the first time, and I gave her a collage poster of pictures of her, myself and my brother to hang in her hospital room. I wanted her to be able to look up at that poster on her most challenging days and be reminded why she was doing this.

I don’t know what else to say other than we just felt that we “had” this.

That all changed on December 30 when my brother and I received a text from her, “No visitors, please.”

That was the first day she didn’t answer when I called her.

I got in touch with my stepdad, and he informed me that her chemo was beginning to kick in, causing her to feel fatigued and develop sores in her mouth and throat, making it difficult to speak.

I respected her wishes, and for the following couple of days, my brother and I received the same message through my stepdad that she did not want company.

We continued to call and send texts that went unresponsive, making matters even more unsettling.

Finally, on January 2, I anxiously tried her again, and she picked up, her voice practically unrecognizable but reassuring that she was going to be okay.

Another day went by without her wanting visitors, and without hearing from her, and I was no longer okay with it.

It was clear that my mom’s chemotherapy treatments were beginning to hit her hard, and she had trouble allowing us to watch it happen.

Tuesday, January 4, began the worst week of my life.

On that day, in between client sessions, I took the twenty minute walk to finally see my mom after too many days apart, only to find someone who looked nothing like my mom.

She was heavily medicated, depressed, speaking gibberish at times, and without a spark of joy to be found.

It was undeniable that chemotherapy was killing off so much of who my mom really is.

Her energy, her zest for life, her joy, her smile. It was all… gone.

Each day following, I prayed for a better day, and each day was worse than the one before.

Before my eyes, my mom was fading.

Her breathing worsened and they put her on oxygen.

She stopped eating any solid foods.

Then she stopped eating food all together.

And worst of all, she began talking about dying.

On Thursday, my brother and I sat on either side of her bed, encouraging her to drink something, and praying that once she did, she would keep it down.

We watched as she took two sips of Ensure and threw up half a liter of God-knows-what.

She looked at us with fear in her eyes and said for the first time that day that she knew she was dying.

As I struggled to catch my breath from hearing those words come from the person I wasn’t ready to live without, I assured her she wasn’t, and promised that tomorrow would be a better day.

I made that promise so many times that night, and I begged her to believe it too, so much so that finally she looked at me and mustered up the strength to whisper, “maybe tomorrow will be a better day.”

That night I prayed harder for a better day than I had ever prayed before.

What I got was a worse one.

That Friday, with words unspoken, my brother and I sat next to her hospital bed, watching our mom fall apart and coming to terms with the unthinkable reality before us: that our mom just might be dying.

By the time my boyfriend picked me up from the hospital my heart was in pieces. I got in his car and sobbed uncontrollably and screamed that the cancer wasn’t killing her, that her treatment was killing her and that she was “fine” until now.

I was so angry.

I hardly slept that night. I just lay awake, crying and praying for a miracle.

The following day I received a call that my mom was being moved to the ICU.

And that day, Saturday, January 8, was the worst day of my life.

It was the day I grieved the loss of my mom.

I canceled all client meetings until further notice, had my boyfriend prepare our one-bedroom condo for my brother, stepdad, and best friend to stay over, and I pleaded with God not to take my mom from us.

The doctor informed us that her body was struggling to heal because of her age, advanced disease, the extent of prior treatment, and the intensity of her current treatment. She had multiple infections from her treatment, including a blockage in her intestines. Because of her specific cancer, she did not have any white blood cells to fight the infections.

He used the phrase “if she recovers” while another doctor said things were getting “slippery.” They put her on an NG tube, and her arms with so bruised and swollen from all of the IVs that we couldn’t watch when they had to add another.

They said if the blockage didn’t clear up on its own, the only other option would be surgery, which she would never survive being so weak and without an immune system.

That day, the pain in my body was the most visceral pain I have ever experienced in my life. It was excruciating.

My stepdad and I held each other and cried and wondered how and where things went so wrong, how she could be so alive ten days prior.

I held her hands, brushed her remaining hair out of her face, and as she told us she knew she was dying, I reassured her again that she wasn’t, feeling like a complete liar.

When I wasn’t in her room I was screaming “God, please don’t take her” over and over again.

My brother arrived and I watched him cry as he held her hand and touched her face, knowing very well we both were living our worst nightmare.

I scrolled through my mom’s phone for any photos of us I didn’t have on mine and sent them to myself.

I took photos of our hands holding hers.

And I cried as though the world was ending.

Because for me, it was.

Visiting hours ended at 8 pm, and we left in pure agony.

As my stepdad drove us to my home that Saturday night, Skeeter Davis’ lyrics “The End of the World” played in my head loudly.

We prayed that God would send us a miracle and save her.

The following days I would describe as an emotional rollercoaster.

The three of us didn’t leave her side from the moment they let us in at 10 to the minute they kicked us out at 8. She remained relatively stable and unconscious through most of the days and nights. We rotated being in the room with her as they only allowed two at a time. And it felt for some time that we had a scare for every small win we had.

We left each night in fear for what the following day would bring. I had my mom’s name mentioned in prayer circles around the world, had friends donating blood in her honor, and I prayed to God each day to not take her, to heal her, and to send us miracles.

And while each day appeared the same from the outside, on the inside, slowly, God was sending us miracles.

My mom was healing.

• They identified the source of one of her infections to be her PICC line, and they removed it immediately and fought it with antibiotics.
• Her white blood cell count jumped from .1 to .9.
• Her intestinal inflammation and blockage dissolved.
• Her kidneys and liver began to look good.
• She began breathing better on her own.

And on Wednesday, January 12, she graduated from the ICU back to a traditional hospital floor.

While we still have a ways to go, where we have come since Saturday feels nothing short of miraculous.

She was removed from oxygen, they took out her NG tube, and she held down sips of chicken broth for the first time in over one week.

Shortly after she was approved for soft foods.

Yesterday she did various arm and leg movements, and even stood up, with assistance, for about one minute.

And instead of her initial plan of going through this on her own, she now waits every day for 10am as she knows we’ll be entering her room any minute.

I remember sitting with her silently one of the first few days she was admitted when she said to me, “I’m going to lose my hair again.”

I reminded her that she has prettiest face in the world, so not to worry.

Yesterday my mom looked at me and made a gesture toward her head, and whispered something.

“How much hair do you have left?” I confirmed.

She nodded.

Without batting an eye, I replied, “Most of it is gone, but mom, that is the least of our worries.”

She agreed.

Thank you to Medium for giving me a platform to write about my experience, as I wasn’t quite ready to share this on my blog.

Thank you to the nurses at Northwestern Hospital and nurses everywhere. You all are angels on earth and I could not have more respect for your profession.

Thank you to anyone and everyone who said a prayer for my mom, and please keep the prayers coming.

Thank you to all of those who donated blood in honor of my mom, and to anyone who donates regularly. You are a life saver.

And thank you to God, for sending us miracles.