It was bound to happen sooner or later

    It was September 2nd. The air felt different. I remember the weight of the silence in my mom's room. Ten years of dementia—a slow, cruel theft of a person you love—followed by the final, heavy toll of heart failure. It was September 2nd, 2 am, and she finally let go.

    Looking back at January 2024, I feel like I'm looking at a stranger. I was so sick. My body was an absolute mystery, bouncing from doctor to doctor, while my siblings were furious. They wanted me there. They wanted me to show up for Mom. And I couldn't. I couldn't explain that I was falling apart because I didn't have a name for the monster living inside me yet. It took three years to finally hear the word: cancer. Stage 2b, Serous Carcinoma. That was the answer to why I couldn't deal with their drama. I was fighting for my own life, and I didn't even know it.

    I faced surgery and almost all of my chemo with just my husband by my side. It was quiet. It was terrifying. It was lonely. In January 2026, I finally put it out there on Facebook. I told them. I told everyone. And by February, when my sister reached out one more time, I felt a nudge—something told me it was time. I still had chemo left, and my immune system was basically a ghost, so I couldn't go visit. I couldn't risk catching a common cold that would have sent me to the ER. But the door cracked open.

    By the end of April, that last chemo infusion was behind me. I felt just well enough to start being a daughter again. God knew. I swear He knew. I got those last few months with Mom and my step-dad. I got to hold her hand when the world was closing in on her. That night, just hours before she passed, I leaned in. I whispered it right into her ear: It’s okay. You can go home now. We love you, Mom. It’s time to be pain-free.

    We got the call at 2:00 a.m. We went back over to help my step-dad process the impossible. Fifty-five years of marriage. Fifty-five years of life together, gone in an instant. Watching him try to navigate that silence is a pain I wouldn't wish on anyone.

    So, I started going over twice a week. Just to check in. To breathe. Three weeks later, he looked at all her craft supplies and said it was time. If you knew my mom, you knew she was a master-level hoarder of crafts. Every room was a mountain of yarn, fabric, and paper. It wasn't a home; it was a storage shed that used to be a house. So, we started digging. We cleared the rooms. I brought all those supplies home, determined to sell them off to help him cover the funeral costs. It was a mission. A heavy, dusty, emotional mission.

    But yesterday, September 30th, the bill for that mission came due. I woke up feeling like a semi-truck had parked on my chest. Every joint, every muscle—screaming. I stayed in bed and cried all day. Today, the worst of the body aches have faded, but the stomach bug has arrived to remind me who is actually in charge. UGH. It’s the first time I’ve been hit like this in over a year. The stubbornness in me wants to push through, but the chemo brain and the fragile immune system? They’re screaming for a break.

    I guess this is what they call a warning shot. I have months of selling left to do. The craft supplies are still everywhere in my house, waiting to be sorted, photographed, and listed. It’s a mountain, and I want to get it done for my step-dad, but I’m learning the hard way that I’m not invincible. I’m just a survivor with a very thin safety net.

    It was bound to happen, I suppose. I’ve been running on adrenaline and grief, and my body finally decided it had had enough. I’m going to try to be more careful. I have to be. Healing isn't a straight line, and apparently, it doesn't leave much room for overdoing it, either. If you’re in the middle of your own battle, take the rest. Listen to your body before it forces you to stop. We’re all just doing our best, and sometimes, our best means slowing down.

18 years old 86 years old (3 days prior to passig)