The Hardest Part

My mom and I were close. Very close. We texted constantly, talked daily, and I consulted her on every decision – big or small. The hardest part of losing her has not turned out to be the trauma of witnessing her last breaths or dealing with her things and unfinished communications, but the massive hole in my life left by her absence.

It has been 30 days, 11 hours, 29 minutes and 57 seconds since she passed away. I am constantly neck-deep in reminders of it, and I STILL have the urge many times every day to call, text, or email her. She encouraged me daily. She was the one fighting a terminal illness and everything that went along with that, physically and emotionally—and I still depended on her to cheer me on.

I’ve been dealing with depression and anxiety for many years now. My mom was the one who would ask me in that knowing voice, “How are you doing?” If she hadn’t heard from me for a day or so, I would get the call, “I was worried about you.”

Who is going to worry about me now?

Maybe it’s selfish and childish. But it’s real. She guided me. She held me up when I was stumbling, she yelled at me when I needed it.  Her love and approval were my prizes for making it through the day.