My mom died two years ago this spring. She had complications from a stem cell transplant to rid her of lymphoma. She was only 58 years old.

The night before she died, my aunt texted me that my mother was in the ER and that I should call her. This was a common thing, her going to the ER, because of her breathing condition. I thought, “I can’t do this right now.” I had two events that night, back-to-back, and was preparing for meetings the next morning. On the car ride home, I took my time on Instagram and fell asleep on the couch watching My So Called Life. I had thought to call her all night, and then just forgot. This would haunt me for a long time. I woke up at 4am EST which would have been 1am PST (she was in Oregon), and I felt a wave of electricity wash over me. I fell back asleep and then woke up in a panic to get to work. As I was rushing to the subway, I saw a text from my aunt that said “Call me!”

I almost waited until I got out of the subway in Soho. (It’s important to understand that my mom had been sick for many years, and trips to the ER had sadly become a normal occurrence.) But I called my aunt right away and when she picked up the phone, she said, “Honey, I’m so sorry, but your mom had an episode last night and is gone.” I couldn’t believe it. The air completely left my lungs. She told me my mom was unconscious, but still had a heart beat. I FaceTimed her right then, in the middle of the street and hysterical. I was able to tell her that I loved her and what an amazing mother she was, as she left this world and crossed over to the next. I believe she heard every word I said. When I hung up the phone with her, I just collapsed into the street and cried, “I wasn’t ready” and “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

With Mother’s Day this weekend and the recent birth of my son, whom she never got to meet, I’ve been thinking a lot about her and how hard it has been to walk through this time without her. I’ve been replaying my last conversation with her, which took place a week before she died. It was a normal afternoon lunch break chat and I remember feeling frustrated with her because she was a little blues-y. I also thought I might be pregnant (which I wasn’t—although I had been trying for almost two years at this point) and wanted to tell her, but decided not to because I didn’t want to get my hopes up. With the two-year anniversary of her memoriam, I was hit with the realization of how much I truly missed her during this pregnancy and would have loved to hear her voice even for five minutes to assure me that my delivery would go well and that I shouldn’t be afraid.

It still feels surreal that she’s not here and as I look at my children I just miss her and wish they could experience her love and light. For a long time, I beat myself up that I hadn’t called her the night before. I found out that she had wanted to call me and my brothers and even had her phone brought to her in the hospital bed but was so short of breath that she never called. I never called. What would I have said to her in that last conversation? And would it have been so different from the previous one I’d just had with her? We always ended our phone calls with “I love you.” But would it have been it different to actually feel like I was saying goodbye? Would I even have known that that’s what I was doing?

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