Grief – The Day My Heart Died – Part 1

Grief is the intense emotional suffering and distress that follows a significant loss—especially the death of a loved one. It’s a natural response to any loss that shatters your sense of normalcy or identity.

But even now, I don’t think the word grief is strong enough for what I felt the day my mom went home to be with God.

That sentence alone tells me how far I’ve come in healing. Back then, I didn’t say “went home to be with God.” I said it was the day God ripped my heart from my soul. The day the sunshine vanished. The day the sky filled with dark, heavy clouds. The day the old me died.

My mom was the epitome of a nurturer. She took care of everyone. When we moved back to New Jersey, it was because Aunt Gloria had gotten into serious financial trouble. I never knew the full story, but I’d heard she borrowed money from a loan shark without realizing it, trying to pay off other debts, and couldn’t pay it back. Aunt Gloria was naïve in those matters. My mom wasn’t. Mom knew a little about everything—and she had a big heart. She packed up her three daughters, a newborn grandbaby, and her new love (who I called “Debit”) and moved in with Aunt Gloria. She helped Aunt Gloria out of her mess, and when things settled, Mom was off to the next person who needed rescuing.

Mom worked herself to the bone to keep us comfortable. I still don’t know how she did it. We always lived in nice neighborhoods, in well-furnished homes, with what we thought was “the good life.” In reality, it was my mom’s sweat and tears making that life possible. She wore her body out.

The first sign of trouble was her heart attack. I’d never seen my mom so vulnerable, but I still knew—without question—she would bounce back. She always did. And she did. She recovered, got her strength back, and went right back to hustling—making sure everyone was okay, putting herself last every time.

Eventually, things seemed balanced. My siblings were doing well. I was married. Mom and Debit were happy. She even decided to go back to school to become a Certified Nursing Assistant, using her gift for caring in a new way. She was so excited.

Then came the day she gathered us all to share the news: she had cancer. The Big C. A disease that already haunted our family tree. I heard the words, but they didn’t land. My mom had conquered everything life threw at her—these were just words.

I told myself she just needed cheering up. Her birthday was coming, so I planned the surprise party of her dreams. It gave me something to focus on, something to distract me from the reality I refused to face. I poured myself into it—planning, researching, making lists—while Mom endured chemo. I’d watch her crawl up the front stairs after treatments, stopping to vomit, then collapse in bed, only to brighten up just before the next round, and repeat the cycle.

The party was perfect. I invited everyone I could think of—people who loved her, people she’d helped, people who wanted to give her flowers while she could still enjoy them. She was truly surprised, which was a miracle because my mom was nosey. Her face beamed with joy. She talked about that party for weeks.

But her health kept declining. And I kept denying.

One day, I called her from work and she said she was on the bathroom floor with Kia, unable to move. I called Debit immediately, and he rushed her to the ER. I still didn’t let myself believe what was happening.

Around Easter, I visited her in the hospital with Kia. Normally, seeing each other made them light up, but not that day. Mom’s skin was a deep charcoal from her face to her neck, but her hands were pale. She didn’t speak. Even Kia—just five years old—didn’t smile. She climbed into bed beside her grandmother, but didn’t look at her. She knew. Somehow, my little girl knew it was time.

Weeks later, Mom was still in the hospital. Then one day, she smiled at me and said, “Hi, baby.” My heart leapt. She’s better, I thought. She’s coming home. She even asked the doctor if she could go home soon. They gave a hesitant “we’ll see.” I didn’t care. I was sure she’d beat this too.

The next day, I avoided going to the hospital—something I’d never done before. I visited friends, sat in my car listening to music, busied myself at Mom’s house. I just… didn’t want to go. When I called the room, someone kept picking up and hanging up. The nurses wouldn’t say much over the phone. I finally asked my sister Terri to check. Twenty minutes later she called, her voice trembling. “Get up here, Valerie. Now.”

Debit and I sped to the hospital. All the way there, I prayed: I’m not ready, God. Please. I’m not ready.

When I arrived, the room was full of family. I was angry they were there before me. Angry they were just sitting and staring at her like she was on display. I went to kiss her cheek—it was warm. The nurse told me she was gone.

“No!” I screamed. “She’s not gone! Her face is warm! Mommy, wake up!” I cried until the nurses pulled me into another room. My sisters followed. I broke free and stumbled into the sanctuary, collapsing to my knees. I begged God not to take her. She’s my everything, I prayed. I can’t do this without her. My sister’s were looking to me for guidance, but I had not guidance. I had no words. I had no preparation for this.

 I saw a payphone in the hallway and rushed to call my dad, my hero. He could make it better. He could barely understand what I was saying, but when he caught the words, they say she’s gone. He hung up the phone and was there in what seemed minutes.

The rest was a blur—chaos, spinning walls, and the next thing I knew I was on the floor, my sisters and a nurse hovering over me. She asked my sister’s what happened. Thourhg their cries they yelled, she fainted. Wake up Valere, We need you.

Back upstairs, the family was crying and moaning. I was numb. It was like some kind of bad dream that I coulldn’t wak up from. The deep, aching pain is unexplainable. You can’t put it into words. Its like someone has shut off the switch in your brain. Nothing seems real, nothing seems hopeful. Nothing seems the same. It’s like someone reached into your body and pulled out the part that kept your heart pumping and the only thing left is an empty hole.

That hole stayed with me for years. I was furious at God. How dare he take my mother? He knew how much she meant to me. How was I going to live in this world without her. I woudn’t. I didn’t want to.