Please Don’t Ask Me, “How’s your Mom?”

Trying to hold it together as I am losing my best friend.

Several months ago, I ran into an old friend of Mom’s, the mother of one of my own friends, at a local store during a particularly hard time. Mom had just totaled her car which led to us learning that her brain tumors were growing again.

The friend asked how I was and how my mom was, and I couldn’t hold back the sobs. I ended up spilling my guts. Luckily, a mom herself, she offered comfort with her words and hugs until I gathered myself and headed home.

Two weeks ago, I left the house for the first time since returning home after the doctors told us mom’s treatments weren’t working, and her prognosis was 3–6 months.

The day I decided to leave the house, Mom was having a pretty good day. We’d initiated hospice care, so I finally had some much-needed help caring for her. I decided to make a quick run to the Dollar General five-minutes from the house.

Walking into the store, I was overcome with anxiety. My mom lives in the same small town where I grew up. We know everyone. It hadn’t occurred to me until I walked through the automatic doors that I could see someone I knew. And if they asked me how mom was, I wasn’t going to be able to control my emotions, and I’d end up bawling uncontrollably.

I’m basically always on the verge of bawling these days. Overwhelmed by the situation itself and the 24-hour care she requires. I have help, but she’s my mom, and nobody will care for her like I will. So I am physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted.

I’d made it here and needed a few things, so I decided to keep my eyes glued to the ground and get in and out as quickly as possible. I had changed my hair color while I was away, so I hoped that as long as I hid my face, I wouldn’t be recognized.

I made it in and out of the store quickly and with minimal human interaction. But even the checkout with the jovial cashier made me want to burst into tears.

A week or so later, I had an errand to run for Mom and needed a few things from the grocery store. She’d had an excellent day, but as I prepared to leave, she asked me repeatedly where I was going and if I would be there when she woke up. I knew she’d sleep the entire time I was gone, and I reassured her over and over that I’d be back as quickly as possible. Then I wrote her a note telling her I left at 2:00 p.m. for Wal-Mart and the lawyers and I’d be back between 3:00 and 4:00.

If I hadn’t needed to stop at the lawyers and buy a pulse oximeter to monitor her oxygen, I never could have forced myself out the door. I drove to the store as quickly as possible, practically running the aisles with my head down. This time, I’d thought ahead and worn a hat.

Standing in one aisle searching for the perfect cup for Mom’s water — light enough she could lift it but well insulated, with a handle and a bendable straw — I heard a voice I recognized, and my heart skipped a beat. Glancing out the corner of my eye, I confirmed it was a friend of mine who knew my mom well. I didn’t have the time or energy to lose it in the middle of the supermarket. And I knew the first thing she’d ask me was, “How’s your mom?”

She was far enough away in a diagonally adjacent aisle that she hadn’t seen me. For a moment, I froze, then bolted from the aisle.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the support and concern of family and friends who’ve followed Mom’s progress since she was diagnosed with Glioblastoma 2 years ago. I love them for all their kindness, genuine love, and support. But how do I answer the question, “How’s your mom doing?” when the honest answer is that she’s in a steady decline, progressing through the dying process? How do I express how hard this time is but how grateful I am to be here for it? It requires too many words when all I can think of is how she’s waiting for me and probably confused as to why I’m not by her side for the first time in weeks.

There’s no fast or polite way to say, “She’s dying, and each day I lose a little more of my best friend.”

I want a button for my jacket that says, “Please don’t ask me how my Mom is.” I want an invisibility cloak. But what I really want is to just spend every second possible right by my mom’s side, forgetting the outside world and everyone in it and telling her repeatedly how much I love her and how happy I am to be with her. I want to forget because nobody matters but her right now.