09 May ‘Unexpressed Love’: Losing My Mom Taught Me Grief Never Leaves Us. And I Don’t Want it To

Mother’s Day 2013 was the last they celebrated together. The author is second from right with, from left, his brother Steven, sister Barbara, mother Maria, and brother Eddie. (Courtesy of Joseph De La Cruz)

Editor’s Note: This is part of our coverage for Mental Health Awareness Month, reflecting the theme of this year’s campaign by the National Alliance on Mental Illness: “In every story, there’s strength.”

Commentary, Joseph De La Cruz

My mom is gone. I have to get that out of the way. That is my reality.

It’s not like I didn’t have a mom, I was lucky enough to have one, unlike so many people. I had one for the first 21 years of my life. But no amount of time is enough time to have with one’s mother. No amount of time is enough with any parent. But I had time with her. And it’s not like she died unexpectedly — my family and I knew it was coming

Seeing a loved one deal with illness is scary. There’s no one way to put that. But seeing a parent die of cancer, an illness in which the body is attacking itself and you’re just watching your loved one deteriorate before your eyes — that is something that I honestly wouldn’t even wish on my enemies.

It started one rainy day in November 2012, a few weeks before Thanksgiving. My mom was my best friend in every sense of the word. Wherever she went, you can believe I was there with her. Including various doctors’ appointments.

This one, I knew she was scared. And her being scared meant I was scared. It was that appointment — after various scans and tests — that confirmed what I knew right then and there would be the biggest change of my life. My mother, my best friend, had cancer.

I tried to wrap my head around words like terminal, and that there wasn’t much that could be done. Even with chemo pills, as much as I wanted to hope and as much as I was in denial, my mother was going to die.

But still I always held out hope, even when we were told that she would probably make it three months at most. I held out for a miracle — that cancer would disappear from my mom’s body. I held onto hope on the days in which, after coming home from the one class I was taking at my local community college, I had to care for her. I made her fruit smoothies and heated up leftovers my dad and sister had made the night before. She would not finish because she was just not hungry.

I held onto hope on the days in which I had to skip school because I had to take my mom to her check-ins and get her blood drawn. In which I had to take the bus with her because she just couldn’t drive anymore and I hadn’t learned yet. While I helped her onto the bus, sometimes there would be a wheelchair involved. At times, I would catch people looking at us before they quickly turned the other way. I wondered if they were able to smell the chemo coming off of her, disguised by the smell of her many perfumes. The small things she would do to hold onto the woman she was before and make herself feel beautiful.

I held onto hope. I held onto hope that one last time she was taken to the hospital. I held onto hope even after she fell into a coma and I was told by doctors that she wasn’t going to wake up.

I held onto hope until Oct. 16, 2013. I was woken up by a phone call that my older brother was having with a relative in Mexico. My mother was gone. She had lost her battle with cancer. My mother had lost her battle, but she was finally at peace. But my own battles were just beginning.

I mourned my mom as she was dying. Yes, I was holding onto hope. But I’ve also come to realize that as she was fighting for her life, I was mourning and preparing myself.

Because I was already mourning her, I was already dealing with the depression that comes with a loved one dying. On top of that, I was also going through my first heartbreak after a breakup. But because I was taking care of my mom, there was no time for me to deal with my own emotions. When I did cry, I cried at night when everyone was asleep and when I knew no one was going to see. I was mourning my mother when I went to those doctor’s appointments, during those scans, and when she was at home and my family was with her.

When she finally died and the funeral had come and gone, I was finally given the time to deal with those emotions. The loss of my mother, the highs and lows of my relationship with my ex, it was something that I now had to face. I no longer had the Band-Aid of having to be there for my mom and to try and be strong for anyone. There was nothing for me to be strong for. And those emotions came and hit me like a tidal wave, and I was only able to breathe for air once I had to face them.

I’ll be one to say that I didn’t face them in a healthy way. I had only turned 21 a month before my mom died. That had opened up the world of being able to go out and drink without anyone being able to stop me. But while I had this, I only had the support of my best friend (who continues to be my best friend to this day) and my ex. My family was there for me, of course, but during that time, it felt like we were all trying to figure out how to deal with our loss in our own ways.

I’ll always be thankful for the nights in which my ex and best friend randomly picked me up from work. When we would get tacos from one of our favorite trucks and with whatever alcohol we were able to get our hands on, we would take a drive to the Oakland Hills or Twin Peaks in The City and just talk about everything and nothing. And the nights when we just hit up a random club and dance until 2 a.m.

But I’m also thankful for the nights in which I could cry to them after having a few drinks. Or when I would just cry by myself with no one but my blankets to hug me while I lay with my mom’s sweater, imagining it was her hugging me.

Twelve years later, and with Mother’s Day approaching as I write this, what I’ve learned is that grief is ever-changing. Those who have only recently lost someone, even those who have yet to lose someone, ask When does it go away? The pain of losing someone. It doesn’t. What it does is change. There are good days, in which the pain feels like a small pinch you can ignore. You’re able to smile and laugh and create memories with the loved ones that are here. You feel the grief loosen and you get to just breathe.

And then there are days in which the grief hits you out of nowhere. Days in which I find myself at work and out of nowhere, I feel myself tear up and I have to excuse myself. Days in which the grief will keep you in bed. In the days, you have to honor your feelings. You have to acknowledge them and feel them. Give yourself the chance to feel them. And know that while it feels horrible at that moment, that day, you won’t always feel that way.

Actor Andrew Garfield said a few years ago that he looks as grief as “unexpressed love,” something that he learned due to his own mother dying. I can’t help but look at that thought and agree in some ways. If that is what grief really is, all the unexpressed love I have for my mom, then I hope it doesn’t go away.

Everyone deals with grief in their own ways. And while my way of dealing with grief wasn’t what many will assume is the correct way, it was just that — my way.