Grief: A personal essay on questions, regret and sadness
Frankie DiCalorgero / The Hofstra Chronicle
Grief — the thought of death has always made me feel unwell. Sometimes, the thought itself us worse than watching someone slowly begin to decline in health. Death has always held a tight grip on my body. The fear of being in pain, the fear of loved ones being overwhelmed with sadness and, most importantly, the fear of what happens next. The question has been playing on a loop in my brain for the past 10 years. I have met with death all my life, but the experience I went through when my mother passed away on Dec. 12, 2022, is one that I wish nobody else would ever have to go through.
In April 2022, my mother was diagnosed with sarcoma, a rare type of cancer that occurs in the bones and soft tissues. In 2022, it was estimated that around 17,100 people in the United States had been diagnosed with this illness — talk about unlucky. This was not the first time my mom had cancer, but it was the first time you could see just how much the tumor was taking from her. A tumor the size of a football attacked the way she slept, walked and emotionally grasped this potentially life-changing journey.
As time went on and her prognosis worsened, she went to Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, where she received surgery on her leg that completely removed the ever-growing tumor. All our worries basically evaporated after that — until one day in September.
My mom was in rehab and having trouble moving one side of her body. She was transferred to a hospital in New Jersey that was near the rehab center, and my mom, my sister and I were told that the cancer had metastasized to her brain. I still remember my sister’s reaction. Beet red, tears overflowing and my mom trying to calm her down, saying everything was going to be okay, Deep down, both my sister and I knew that things weren’t “okay.” I believe my mother knew that things may not be on the right track and that she was just trying to stay positive for her children.
As time went on, my mom went through two brain surgeries in the span of one month, one of which caused my mom to lose her memory and sense of self for a few days due to radiation therapy post-operation. The first surgery was labeled a success, but the cancer came back once again in rehab this time on the complete other side of her body. And despite the second surgery also being a “success,” things never went back to normal. My mom wasn’t as motivated, doctors weren’t as positive and our family was preparing for the worst.
The day my sister and I found out my mom’s cancer became terminal will go down as the worst day of my life, because at that moment, everything became clear. This was the end. This was the end of me and my mom telling jokes to each other. This was the end of our trips to the beach. This was the end of her teaching me how to cook. This was the end of watching our favorite shows together and always differing about who our favorites were. This was the end of us as we knew it. Yes, my mom is still with me, in my heart and mind, but it’s not the same and it never will be.
Even now, I feel a sense of jealousy in every conversation where someone’s mother is brought up. “I’m going out to eat with my mom for her birthday.” I’m texting her happy birthday knowing that she’s not going to answer. “My mom and I are going shopping.” I’m packing up all her clothes in a bin and putting them in the attic because they won’t be worn. “My mom just texted me ‘goodnight, I love you.’” I’m looking at every past text message where I regret acting in a sort of way or regret not being as loving to her.
Every scenario, every situation brought up brings up negative thoughts. While I should be thinking about the good times, I can’t help but think about the times when I should’ve been better. I can’t help but think about her not being here when something good or exciting happens in my life. Her death took a huge part of me. That’s the sh*tty thing about grief. You’re still here, but the repercussions of what happened will live with you in the present day and for as long as you live. Then your kids will carry that grief, and so on and so forth. Grief is an endless cycle and unfortunately, it’s unavoidable.
“I love you bigger than the sky.” That was the last true sentence my mom ever spoke to me. In her final days, when she could barely talk, had trouble breathing and her heart was racing, that sentence stuck with me. She was told she was supposed to pass away a week prior to Dec. 12. She didn’t. She didn’t go out easily. Because she knew that when she took her final breath, the phrase “I love you bigger than the sky” would have to be true. She would love us bigger than the sky because that’s where she is. She looks down on us, giving us all the love in the world because she knows all the pain left is due to this tragedy.
She didn’t want to let go because she didn’t want her children to be heartbroken. How could she be taken away so soon? I’m not super religious, but throughout this time of grief, I’ve concluded that it’s better to believe that your loved one is in a better place, with no pain and with their family, looking down and being at peace. For me, it’s better than thinking when you die there is nothing but darkness. And if there is one thing I know about my mom, she deserved more than anyone else to live in the light and not the darkness. The light she shone on the world and myself is ever-lasting and will never be out of sight or out of mind, never running out of life.
