It's okay not to be okay

Photo By Sheila deVera | A photo collage of Sheila deVera and her mother posing in front of the camera.  

JOINT BASE ELMENDORF-RICHARDSON, AK, UNITED STATES

12.07.2022

Story by Sheila deVera 

Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson   

(Editor’s Note: This commentary focuses on the impact of caring for a loved one during end of life, and encouraging caregivers to seek mental health resources in order to navigate pain and grief from the death of a loved one.)

Cynthia, my mother, is a vibrant woman. She laughs like there is no tomorrow, cries quietly so no one notices, assists those in need, and loves her family more than she loves herself.

In 1996, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. It went into remission, and she was cancer-free after two years. My worst nightmare appeared to be over, but in 2014, I was caught off guard by another devastating piece of news.

It was just another day of surgery for my mother. While I waited in the lobby, her oncology doctor stepped out of the operating room and delivered the news to me.

Cynthia was diagnosed with stage II ovarian cancer.

For six years, she was in and out of treatment, never giving up. Despite her cancer battles, she lived her life to the fullest and refused to let the disease define her. During those times, she looked after my three sons, then ages 9, 6, and 5, while I was away serving in the military. She held down the fort when I was deployed, assigned to temporary duty locations, and worked more than 12-hour shifts – I was lucky to have her.

She traveled as much as she could, took up gardening, and cooked for her family nonstop. My mother and I thought she had defeated the disease. Nonetheless, I received a call from her doctor on July 3, 2020, informing me that her medication was no longer effective due to her cancer spreading throughout her body.

Her doctor told both of us she only had six months to live.

We celebrated her 69th birthday even though she knew time was not on her side. I will never forget how vibrant and happy she was on her special day. In the next few months, her health deteriorated.

We were in and out of the hospital almost every other week, and sometimes in an ambulance, watching her get poked to get IV fluids, seeing nurses assist the doctors draining fluid out of her lungs and heart, monitoring her oxygen level, and hearing the doctors tell us that they have stabilized her and to seek medical attention if her condition worsens. Because of our frequent visit to the emergency room, I remembered every medication, dosage she had taken, ER visits and all the small procedures they had done.

The last emergency room visit was four days before Christmas, and we waited for over 10 hours for her doctor to come. Her doctor immediately said that there is nothing that they can do, and she is dying. She immediately transitioned to hospice care. The focus was to bring her back home and be with family during the holidays. Unfortunately, she succumbed to the illness two days before Christmas in 2020. She fought a six-year battle with cancer until the very end.

Before she passed away that afternoon, she told us what she wanted us to prepare for Christmas Eve. Unbeknownst to us, it was her saying goodbye and to carry-on without her. Her passing had a significant impact on my life. Immediately after her death, I went on auto-pilot mode. I was preoccupied with completing the necessary paperwork to bring her back to the Philippines, her home.

During those times, I never processed my feelings. I was stuck. I was still hoping it was all a bad dream. I was in denial. When I realized I’d never hear her laugh, hear her voice, see her smile and walk into her empty room again – that's when I knew she wasn't with us anymore. I was her only child, and I had no one else besides my mother.

As tears stream down my cheeks, I'm still trying to accept her absence. Some days, I don't want to get out of bed. There are times when I can’t function. I was overwhelmed with so much pain and emotions that I wasn’t always the mother my children needed me to be. Even now, I am emotionally exhausted.

I knew this was not something my mother would approve of, and I was unhappy with myself; I decided to seek help. My boys needed me just as much as I needed my mother, so I began talking to my doctor and a trusted friend about the void I felt and my guilt for not doing enough to keep her with me. I know the pain won't go away overnight, but I’ve been focusing on processing my feelings.

I understand that everyone goes through their struggle and grief in their unique way. That is why I wanted to share my story with you because I want you to know that you are not alone. So yes, it's acceptable to cry. Yes, it's okay if you don’t have everything together; it takes time.

Yes, it's okay not to be okay, but keep in mind that people are always willing to help if you ask. It isn't easy, but it is the first step to admit that you need help. Change must start with you.

As for me, I will continue to seek help as I learn to navigate my feelings and cope with my loss. While her death anniversary is right around the corner and my emotions are at all-time high one thing is for sure: my mother’s memory will live on in my heart forever.

(Story was originally posted to the Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson website on Dec. 7, 2022, and may be found at https://www.jber.jb.mil/News/Commentaries/Display/Article/3239246/its-okay-not-to-be-okay/)

• Date Taken: 12.07.2022
• Date Posted: 12.07.2022 16:21
• Story ID: 434700
• Location: JOINT BASE ELMENDORF-RICHARDSON, AK, US