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On July 3rd, 2024, I got a call from my mom. She was in the hospital, and doctors had found a mass in her cervical area during an imaging scan, and it was very likely cancer. The one word crushed me: cancer.
That word carried more than fear. It brought me back to when my first wife was diagnosed with osteosarcoma in 2000. She was 25 when she died in hospice in 2001. I was with her when she took her last breath. Hearing “cancer” again, this time about my mom, reopened every wound I had tried to heal.
My mom lives in Georgia with my oldest sister. I live in Arizona, almost 2,000 miles away. The very next day, on July 4th, after my mom told me about the diagnosis, I flew to Georgia. I needed to see and be there with my mom.
Cancer treatment began, but dementia changed everything
My mom began treatment, radiation, and chemotherapy about four weeks after she was diagnosed with cancer. My sister quickly became the primary caregiver, taking my mom to her treatment appointments and taking care of things around the house.
I was grateful, but also felt the pressure of not always being there. I started to visit more frequently — at least once a month for a week at a time, and during one visit for two weeks.
Six months after the cancer treatment began, we received another devastating diagnosis: dementia. She had been forgetting things and asking the same questions repeatedly. Sometimes she would hallucinate, convinced people were in the room who weren’t there. It was scary to think that she might not recognize me or my siblings someday.
Dementia added an entirely new dimension to her care. I worried not just about her health, but whether she’d even remember I had come. I stayed for two weeks during one visit, helping with appointments and daily care, trying to be present however I could.
Each time I returned to Arizona, I carried guilt with me
My mom raised me and my siblings mostly on her own. She was always there. She never missed any of my big events in life, whether joyful or painful. From graduating from high school and military training in 1989, to graduating from college in 1996, to my first wife’s death in 2001, she’s been there for everything.
And now, I wasn’t close when she needed me the most. I couldn’t stop by or take over when my sister needed a break. Distance made everything feel heavier; every phone call was more urgent, and every visit was more emotional.
I started visiting monthly. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. Since working remotely, I have scheduled my visits around business travel commitments. I couldn’t always be there, but I could be consistent.
Soon after, tensions started to build between my siblings. Conversations about what would happen with the house or other assets if my mom died became more frequent. I didn’t want to argue. I told them clearly: I don’t care about the possessions. As far as I was concerned, they could have everything, and I told them so. I just wanted to make sure that my mom was taken care of.
Time is everything
One moment that stays with me happened during a quiet day. My mom was sitting in her recliner. I don’t remember what she said or if she said anything at all. I kneeled beside her, hugged her, and began to cry. There were no big words. I was just a son holding his mom and trying to take the moment.
I’ve learned that caregiving isn’t just about being in the same zip code. It’s about presence, consistency, and love. Sometimes, it’s a plane ride, sometimes it’s a call, and sometimes it’s just sitting quietly in the same room.
It hasn’t been easy, but it has reminded me that when someone you love is slipping away, you don’t cling to things; you hold on to time.
She has recently died, so I am holding onto that sentiment.
The post I lived 2,000 miles away from my dying mother. I traveled to her as often as I could, but caregiving took its toll on my family. appeared first on Business Insider.
