It’s mid-August 2020, the third week following Mom’s life-changing scan. This journey into the unknown, a terminal cancer diagnosis, is still new. Two of my sisters return from Ohio for a second visit. They will make many more eight-hour drives over the next weeks and months, together and separately.
Across town, I try to establish and hold some sort of routine with my family as we enter fall. The pivot to a socially distanced world means that the upcoming school year will be fully online for the four children still living at home. I have a rising high school senior, sophomore, freshman, and seventh grader.
Mom has always been my emergency school contact and extra pick-up person for the kids. When online re-enrollment opened for the high schoolers in July, her name autofilled on their applications, making that part of the re-registration process simple and quick. I confirmed her contact information.
Weeks later, while enrolling my youngest in a new school, I realized Mom could no longer function in the role of emergency contact. She was in a state of emergency herself. This drastic change in reality over a matter of weeks was difficult to face. I texted a sister-in-law who graciously accepted the emergency contact mantle, then contacted the high school with the update.
This backdrops the time with my sisters today, sitting together in the basement-level studio workspace I have occupied for over a year. It is down the steps from Mom’s office and next door to my parents’ house. Working there offers a certain level of comfort and motivation, knowing Mom is just upstairs, busy about her own business. Sometimes I dash up for a quick coffee break. I treasure these memories.
It makes sense that we are here, my sisters and I, talking, catching up, regrouping. It is a safe, private space, and we have things to sort out. After a while, Mom comes downstairs to join us. It is a Thursday morning, and we have an established Thursday morning routine that is anything but routine now. She sits on the couch.
We talk about things that surface when death looms on the horizon. Conversing with any amount of integrity has taken a lot of work, stretching back years, decades. We have held hard conversations.
We have risked telling the truth when it would have been easier to live in the lies.
There is a tentativeness in all of us surrounding the acceptance of Mom’s sickness. Much is still unspoken. We wonder how bad, how real, how serious this situation is. A theme in our family’s story is How bad does something have to be before we are allowed to say that it is bad?
In other words, what is okay to cry about, and what just needs to be sucked up and dealt with? Can we cry about this yet? I go first. Tears well up inside of me, my chest tightens and tenses, I allow the release of a sob from my throat, and then another and another as I begin to wail. Not cry. I wail.
All of the unshed tears from somewhere deep inside of me explode, followed by my words.
“Is this bad enough? Can I cry about it? Are we allowed to say you are dying? Because that is what is true!” I sob. “And even if you don’t die. Even if this is just a false alarm or you get a miracle cure, is it okay to cry about this right now? Because this sucks! And right now we are facing losing our mother. Our mom is going to die, and we don’t know exactly how or when, but we can see it coming.”
Mom sits with me. With us. She turns to look at my face.
“I should never have made you president of the family without any of the authority,” she says.
Her unexpected response catches me off guard. I am shocked by the truth she names. Because it is true. She put me in an impossible position at an early age. Mom stepped back and left me facing forward to take on responsibilities far beyond my capacity. Though this gave me my superpowers of containment and compartmentalizing, along with other gifts, it should never have been my job.
I wail louder, deeper, guttural groans escaping my chest, exiting my throat. My sisters join me. It is a house of wailing. Our voices rise, crescendo, fall, much like when we sing together. As our nervous systems settle, we look around at each other’s tear-splotched faces and move into the laugh-cry phase of returning to calm.
Dad enters the room to tell Mom he has canceled a work meeting to be held in the office upstairs. Something shifts in that decision, as he puts work responsibilities on hold to give us space to tend to our grief. This Thursday morning is unlike others I have spent with my parents and signals a deeper shift from what has been, to what is, and what is to come.
We remain in the studio. None of us wants our time together to end. In the aftermath of deep sorrow, vulnerability opens, allowing more truth to be spoken in this sacred, safe space.
“I feel this might go fast,” Mom says.
Julie McClay lives in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley with her partner of 31 years, four of their eight children, and six fur and feather babies. Two precious grandchildren bring deep joy and delight. Julie is a lover of stories and words. She serves clients, both in person and virtually, through Heart Path Story Coaching, offering a creative space of kindness, curiosity, and Story Work. Writing and Art Journaling are key elements of her process.
Julie, I am in awe that you received this gift of understanding from your mother before she passed. I remember that one winter we spent together in a very very small women’s bible study talking about this very thing. Bless you. Thank you for sharing.
I was/am in awe as well. It was a gift, as was our time that winter together which I remember dearly. Blessings to you on your journey, Friend. I’m so glad our paths intersected then and now.
Julie, it is heart warming to see how your mom acknowledged the enormous burden she put on you to care for seven younger siblings. I hope you make more time to play and “go off duty” as you deserve a lifetime of breaks from perfectionism. Thank God you are no longer the President.
Thank you! Six younger siblings was a lot (compared to the 8 children I have 😉 , and it was truly a gift to be given official “reprieve.” Yes, rest and play are in order. I am learning more and more how to go off duty. I appreciate your kind response.
Dear Julie, Your entire series shared in this space has left me feeling swirls of agony, anticipation, and awe on your behalf. I am learning and growing with the resonance, not of circumstances necessarily, but of themes.
This offering gave me this specific gift upon which to reflect: “Conversing with any amount of integrity has taken a lot of work, stretching back years, decades. We have held hard conversations.
We have risked telling the truth when it would have been easier to live in the lies.”
Death calls us to a massive amount of truth-telling-with-urgency. I am joyful—and am sighing on your behalf—for the truth your mom spoke about the burdens you have too long and prematurely carried. Freedom to you!