Grief By A Thousand Cuts

Posted November 3, 2025 by Prairie Wife - 2 comments

“Grief By A Thousand Cuts”

I know that technically the phrase is “death by a thousand cuts,” but over and over, as I have navigated learning to live in a world without my mother, this is the phrase I keep hearing in my head.

My mother passed away on July 13, 2025, after a brutal and brief fight with ovarian cancer.

It was her third battle against cancer (previously she had thyroid and breast cancer), and we were all unprepared for the terrifying swiftness of this particular diagnosis.

In just a few months, my mother went from puttering around her beloved house, planning trips to visit us in Wyoming, and spending her days with her husband of over 50 years, to a rushed surgery to remove a massive tumor from her abdomen. The surgery almost took her life, and when I surprised my parents with a visit in March (the week she was supposed to start chemo), I was shocked at how unwell she clearly was.

I stopped at my mother-in-law’s house on my way home from the visit, and she asked me what I thought the outcome would be.

I was so emotionally exhausted from my time spent at home that I had absolutely no filter, and I said.

“She’s going to die.”

We all shed tears in the silence that followed…But I knew in my heart what was going to happen.

My mother fought as hard as she could, with my dad at her side every step of the way.

The chemo was intense, and she was exhausted; she was only awake for a few hours every day…and we never knew when that would be.

I barely talked to her in the months before she died.

She was always sleeping when we called, and I didn’t want my dad to wake her up.

We were in court on July 2, waiting to hear the judge’s verdict on our modifications to our protection order and fighting to protect our daughter from her stalker, when my Apple Watch started to buzz.

Calls from my dad, texts from my sister…I knew in my gut what it was about.

We sat in the car in the courthouse parking lot and called my parents. We first shared the good news about winning and then immediately we all burst into tears when my parents told us that the doctors were going to stop the chemo, that it was no longer working, and that my mother had either weeks…or months left.

I had already purchased a plane ticket to see her the next day, a few weeks before (at the prompting of my older brother and his wife, who lived near my parents), and I began to prepare myself for what was ahead.

But how the hell do you do that?

How do you say goodbye to someone you’ve known your whole life?

Since moving to Wyoming, I had gone many months without seeing my mom. And our relationship was typical (I think) of many mothers and daughters. Sometimes I would talk to her multiple times a week, other times I would go a week or two without a phone call.

We butted heads at times (both strong, stubborn women), but she was ALWAYS there when I needed her. And recently (thank God) our relationship had truly morphed into something that was solid, dependable, and for the most part easy.

She loved my children and The Cowboy more than I think she loved me…and that was just fine!

I am so thankful she was there at my wedding.

And for the births of my children.

But it wasn’t enough.

As I traveled home to Milwaukee to spend 5 days with her, and to meet up with all my other siblings (my older sister and my 2 older brothers) who were flying in at her request, I tried to prepare myself.

A task I now know is impossible.

I had FaceTimed with my mom since she had lost massive amounts of weight, as the tumor fed off of her and grew bigger and bigger.

I had seen pictures of her with her hair gone, and I know she would want me to say that she REALLY did have a perfectly beautiful head shape.

But still, nothing prepared me for walking into that hospital room and seeing her.

She was trying so damn hard to do everything. To smile, to talk, to eat, to stay awake and be present.

And you could see hour by hour what it cost her.

Grief by a thousand cuts.

During my time there, she went from being able to understand what we were saying fairly quickly and responding in a reasonable amount of time to taking minutes to understand and respond to basic questions.

She went from feeding herself to me spooning food into her mouth as if she were one of my children.

What a gift that time was.

I was able to hold her hand for hours, pray next to her while she slept, and say everything I needed to say to her.

I told her I was sorry… the list of exactly what I was sorry for was way too long to get into, but Mom knew.

I promised her I would take care of my dad and that I’d do my best to raise her grandchildren to be who God created them to be…Though I told her I knew I’d never love them as much as she did.

I had the Cowkids all write letters to her, not knowing if their plan to come next week would allow them to see her in time to say everything themselves. She, my dad, and I cried relentlessly as the kids’ messages of thanks, love, hope, and faith were read aloud to her.

It was both awful and beautiful, a blessing that broke my heart in a million pieces.

We brought my grandma and her mother in to see her. And my heart shattered (who knew there were still pieces left to break) to see them both trying to say so much with so little time.

When I had to leave, I kissed her and told her I loved her. I reminded her again that I would be back with the kids and The Cowboy on Saturday.

But as I held her, I whispered into her ear that it was okay if she needed to go before then. That the kids would be OK, we’d all be OK. It was OK if she wanted to go and not be in pain anymore, that I understood.

By the time we made it back to my mom late at night, and a few days later, she was in hospice.

She was at the stage of dying where she could no longer talk, her eyes were closed, but you could tell she was still there.

Even though I had prepared The Cowboy and Cowkids for what they were going to see, it was devastating for them to walk into the room. We were all crying, talking, laughing, and crying some more.

But, even though it was awful, I know that it was important for The Cowkids to see their grandma, to say goodbye to her, and to have that closure.

The next morning, we stopped by so my dad could have a break while I sat with my mom.

As soon as I walked into the room, I knew.

She wasn’t there in the same way she had been the night before.

My dad took a short walk with the kids (he didn’t want to be gone from mom for long) while I sat with my mom, held her hand, prayed, and talked to her.

10 minutes after we left, she passed away, with her husband of 55 years by her side.

What followed was a blur of heartbreak, practical decisions, moments of uncontrollable emotions, and sitting in silence.

My older brother, Ben, and I met with the funeral director, along with my dad, and we made as many plans and decisions as possible before we had to leave.

My older sister and I handled a lot of the details that needed to be done afterwards, and the funeral, a few weeks later, was (I think) exactly what my mom would have wanted. Simple, beautiful music, a gathering of those who loved her and loved those of us who were left behind.

Grief by a thousand cuts.

This was not my first brush with death.

My grandfather’s death when I was in high school was the first time I really remember loving and knowing anyone that had died, and the loss of my beloved Uncle John to ALS (our oldest son is named after him) the last week of my Senior year of high school was the first time I had experienced the slow and devestaing fading of someone you love.

From a car accident that killed my boyfriend before they could get us out of the car, to the loss of three of my unborn children.

The loss of loved ones through the years to age, illness, accidents, and addiction.

I am no stranger to grief.

But oh, how the loss of my mother has hit so terribly differently.

We know it’s going to happen, our parents dying before we do.

But like all other things in life, you don’t know…until you know.

I have gone months and months without seeing my mother, weeks without talking to her.

Yet now, there is an ache and emptiness that accompanies that space in my heart that used to be where she was, that I fear will never be filled.

Some days, I cry only happy tears when something happens that I know I would have told her about later in a phone call.

Other days, when I think about reaching for the phone to call her, I feel the loss physically, and can do nothing but give in and curl up and cry until there is nothing left…or until I have to get my shit together and get things done.

Because that’s the truth of it.

Those of us who are grieving must be careful to express our pain only when it’s appropriate.

Between the must-dos and have tos, gauging who can handle the truth of our pain when they ask how we are…and who cannot.

Carefully making time to be alone and grieve, and then taking a deep breath and splashing water on our face to calm down before the kids get home…or that work call needs to be made.

I read a quote about grief over the loss of a parent that said we must be patient with ourselves.

That we had spent our whole lives knowing deep in our souls that they were there.

Physically, or only a phone call away.

And we can’t expect our brains to undo decades of knowing in a few weeks or even months.

And my dad, my poor dad.

I know how I would feel if I lost The Cowboy now, after 21 years of marriage.

My heart breaks to think what he is going through, losing his wife of 55 years.

But, as I say to him often, at least we can cry together.

And I’m damn thankful I had a mother worth crying for…as complicated as our relationship was at times…I never doubted her love for me.

So here I sit, more than 3 months after my mom passed away, finally trying to write about it.

Grief by a thousand cuts.

Each day full of things I wish I could tell her, things I wish I could ask her, moments when I feel sure she’s with me…and moments where I’ve never felt so alone in my life.

I know with a faith that is part of every cell of me, that I will see her again one day.

But until then, I will miss her a million times, in a million ways big and small…and I will not be ashamed of my tears or of my pain.

For it is a gift to love, and to have been so loved.

XOXOX

Priarie Wife

I came across the song below, and it’s perfect in every way…grab your Kleenex…

 

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Categories: Life As It Happens, Prairie Life

Tags: , death, death of a parent, dying, going through grief, grief, loss, loss of a parent