One Month Without Her
12:34 AM
In just about an hour, it will mark exactly one month since I received that call. A call I knew would come eventually, yet nothing could have prepared me for those words: “Dippy, there’s sad news. We lost Didi.”
My uncle’s voice still echoes vividly in my mind as I write this. I remember quietly acknowledging what he said and hanging up the phone. That’s when the numbness hit—my throat tightening, a sinking feeling took over.
Four months earlier, back in December, my mom was diagnosed with advanced-stage ovarian cancer. And in those months, she didn’t just endure—she faced everything with a kind of strength, grace, and serenity that felt otherworldly. Calling her journey "inspiring" feels far too small. At times, it’s even humbling, realizing I may never hold the kind of quiet power she carried so naturally.
Since returning from India, I’ve been doing my best to hold things together. I stick to a routine—catching up on work, leaving on time, going for walks, staying connected with friends and family, tending to my health. But every evening, as I sit in the car and start the drive home, the memories come flooding in. That’s when the heaviness returns. A tight, suffocating loneliness wraps around me. It feels scary to accept that she is no longer there, that I can call for advice, or to share the little things with. I no longer reach for my phone each morning or after work, hoping for a message, a voice note. And when I think about the future—life milestones, moments of celebration—I’m met with the ache of knowing she won’t be there to see them.
Without consciously trying, I can already feel how this month has changed me. My outlook on life, on relationships, on what truly matters—it’s all been quietly reshaped. I’m fortunate to be surrounded by people who care, but her loss has brought with it a deep realization: that my life now begins and ends with me.
I do remind myself how much grace we were given in those final months. Unlike what many face, she was spared the agonizing pain. We had precious, meaningful time to talk, sit together, and just be. I sometimes wish I’d spoken to her more. But when I sit with that feeling, I realize—it wasn’t she, perhaps, who needed to hear from me. It’s me who now longs for her presence. Her comfort. Her embrace. That longing disguises itself as words left unsaid? She never once asked, “Why me?” Her faith remained unshaken, strong, constant, and deeply rooted. Watching that unbreakable trust being met with compassion from the universe—no pain, no suffering in her last moments—felt like witnessing a quiet miracle.
And now, that same faith is all I have to lean on. It’s the only true support I know I can count on moving forward. I haven’t fully embraced it yet—but deep down, I know it’s the one thing that can hold me the way she once did.
Having said that, I know this ache will never fully leave me. Maybe it’s not supposed to. But I do believe this journey—painful as it is—will lead me to discover a new version of myself. And all I hope is that this version will be stronger. Wiser. A little more like her.
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