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| The author (not pictured) lived far from his mother while she was dying. Djordje Krstic/Getty Images |
On July 3, 2024, my phone rang with the kind of news that changes the shape of your life. My mom was in the hospital, and doctors had found a mass in her cervical area during an imaging scan. It was very likely cancer.
That single word — cancer — did more than strike fear into me. It transported me back in time to 2000, when my first wife was diagnosed with osteosarcoma. She was only 25 when she passed away in hospice the following year, and I was holding her hand when she took her last breath. Hearing that word again, this time about my mom, tore open wounds I thought I had long since stitched shut.
My mom lived in Georgia with my oldest sister. I lived in Arizona — almost 2,000 miles away. The next morning, July 4, I was on a flight. I needed to see her, to sit beside her, to be present in whatever time we had left.
Cancer Was Only the First Battle
About four weeks after her diagnosis, my mom began radiation and chemotherapy. My sister quickly became her primary caregiver, driving her to every appointment and keeping the household running. I was deeply grateful — but I also felt the weight of my absence pressing down on me.
I started visiting more often, arranging my work schedule so I could spend at least one week a month in Georgia, sometimes staying two weeks if I could. I wanted to help — to take her to treatments, cook her meals, keep her company. But just six months into her cancer treatment, we were dealt another cruel blow: dementia.
It started with small things — repeated questions, misplaced objects. Then the hallucinations came: she would talk to people who weren’t in the room or insist that strangers had been in the house. The fear that she might one day look at me and not know who I was settled deep in my chest.
Dementia made her care more complicated. It wasn’t just about fighting cancer anymore; it was about trying to preserve moments of clarity, to anchor her in the here and now.
The Guilt of Distance
My mom had raised my siblings and me mostly on her own. She never missed anything important — my high school graduation, the end of military training in 1989, my college graduation in 1996, even the hardest moment of my life when my first wife passed away in 2001. She was always there.
And now, I wasn’t. Not in the way I wanted to be.
I couldn’t stop by her house when my sister needed a break. I couldn’t take over on the hard days. Every phone call felt urgent. Every goodbye at the airport felt heavier. I did what I could — visiting monthly, working remotely to stretch my trips longer, and scheduling flights around business travel. But the truth is, it never felt like enough.
On top of everything, tensions began to rise between my siblings. Conversations about what would happen to the house or other assets after my mom was gone became more frequent. I wanted no part of it. I told them plainly: I don’t care about the possessions. They could have everything. My only concern was that Mom was cared for, with dignity and without worry.
A Moment I’ll Never Forget
One quiet afternoon, my mom was sitting in her recliner. The television was on, but neither of us was really watching. I don’t remember if she said anything or if there were even words at all. I just kneeled beside her, wrapped my arms around her, and cried.
There was no speech to give, no wisdom to share. It was just a son holding his mother, trying to freeze time for a moment he knew was slipping away.
That day, I learned something I wish I had understood earlier: caregiving isn’t defined by proximity. It’s defined by presence, by showing up — whether in person, over the phone, or in the quiet act of sitting in the same room. Sometimes love is a long plane ride. Sometimes it’s a late-night call. And sometimes it’s just the silence between two people who know they don’t have to say anything at all.
Holding Onto Time, Not Things
My mom passed away recently. The grief is still raw, but I hold tightly to what those final months taught me — that when someone you love is slipping away, you don’t cling to things. You cling to time. You cling to the way their hand feels in yours, to the sound of their laugh, to the moments when they know exactly who you are.
I couldn’t be there for her every day. But I was there in the ways I could be — consistently, with love, and with the full weight of my attention when it mattered most. That’s what I’ll carry forward. And if there’s anything my mom’s life, and her death, have taught me, it’s that love doesn’t have to be measured in miles.
