Jill is an avid rambler and married mother of two from Toronto, Canada, with a remarkable zest for life and a fabulous sense of humor.
One year. 365 days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes.
One whole year.
A year without sharing with
without advice from
without laughter with
without tears with
without hugs from
A year without my mom.
The list of “withouts” feels endless.
When COVID began, my mom was 78, and my dad was 88—both healthy but vulnerable because of their age. For two years, they saw no one. My mom and I would walk separately, yet we’d talk as though we were side by side. Even though I only saw her a handful of times during that period, she was my lifeline.
Towards the end of COVID, my mom became sick. She was diagnosed with cancer. I don’t know if she was trying to protect me, protect herself, or if she truly believed she would be okay—but her positive attitude was nothing short of incredible. Half the time, I forgot she even had cancer. Her immune system was highly compromised, so seeing her in person was out of the question. But as the days passed, our conversations never stopped. We talked about everything. We laughed, we cried, and we shared.
I walked with her for another two years—her voice in my ears, our bond unbroken.
When people say they “survived” cancer because they fought so hard, I get angry. I want to scream, “My mom fought just as hard, with an attitude that was beyond anything I can comprehend!” My mom was a warrior!!
When my mom passed away, my world shattered. I could no longer call her, hug her, laugh with her, cry with her, or share my life with her. I stopped walking—because walking, for me, became too painful. It reminded me of her.
My mom always said, “Life’s not for wallowing. If you need to cry, cry. Get it out, and then move on. Live and enjoy life.” According to her, the best place to cry was in the shower. So, I cry in the shower. Some days, I take more showers.
There’s so much I still want to share with her. The list is endless. I still reach for my phone to call her. I have not removed her from my favorites list—and maybe I never will. I still have all her texts and voicemails, though I haven’t brought myself to read or listen to them yet. Maybe one day.
I’ve started visiting the cemetery. The moment I see her tombstone, I sob uncontrollably. I want the good memories to flood in—maybe one day.
As my mom would say, “Enough wallowing. Let’s focus on the good.”
As much as I cry, I also laugh—a lot. Laughter is the best medicine for me. I try to have fun and be grateful for the life I have and the people in it.
My kids and my husband have been my saviors. They don’t realize it, but they are. My mom was such a huge part of their lives, and the way they keep her memory alive, the stories they tell, is magic! Watching them thrive is pure medicine for me.
I’ve found a new addiction: pickleball. I’m obsessed. Switching up my routine has been a lifesaver. There’s something about pickleball that makes me so happy —whether it’s the sound of the ball hitting the paddle just right, the freedom to swear at the top of my lungs with no one caring, the thrill of winning, or the endless laughter. Whatever it is, it’s magical. And don’t even get me started on the incredible friendships I’ve made. Who knew such deep connections could be made at this stage in life?
If there’s any silver lining, it’s the deepening bond with my dad. Weekly dinners, shared moments, endless phone calls—we’ve grown so much closer. Watching him walk into his house alone is heartbreaking, but for now, I embrace the good with the bad.
I’ve started walking again. I have a new route. I blast rock and roll through my headphones, nothing like a little ACDC to drown out the sadness.
What I’m slowly realizing (very slowly!) is that even though she’s not physically here, my mom is still a huge part of my life, and she always will be. She was my guiding light—and she still is.
Today is a new day. Today, I’ll take a shower, play pickleball, laugh until my belly hurts, smile as I think about my kids, enjoy a walk with my husband, and maybe even buy that purse I’ve been coveting—because my mom would want me to.
Grief is a work in progress—and so am I.
READ MORE > Her Story, Rambler Cafe Blog
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