As 2023 drew to a close, events unfolded that would define the coming year. I started in a new job at the Finnish Broadcasting Company as a software developer in November. Just before that, my wife and I learned that we were expecting a child, our second. Then, just some days before the New Year I learned that my mother's cancer treatments would soon cease, as nothing seemed to slow down the spread of cancer cells. She was diagnosed in 2020 and for some time there was hope of a remission, but no more.
In January we became concerned with the health of our unborn child. According to the ultrasound, there was a considerable chance of a congenital disorder. This led to further testing. Our excitement for the pregnancy turned into anxiety, for a time. The results came back negative, we were relieved, but the episode took a toll on our mental health.
In February a very close friend of mine died. Though he was young and healthy, a one-in-a-million bacterial infection brought him down before he could seek help. While I had been given years to prepare for my mother’s inevitable death, this one I could not foresee, and the grief struck me hard. We had been friends for 15 years. We'd often go bouldering together with him and his brother, and between climbs, we'd discuss life and work. I missed my friend’s energy, enthusiasm and wisdom. After his death I remember feeling like I was engulfed in a kind of heavy mist, wandering aimlessly.
Soon after, my mother’s treatments stopped. I accompanied her to the doctor’s appointment where the facts were laid bare. No life expectancy estimation was given, but at the rate the tumours were growing, there was not much time left. She could only be given relief for the pain and a mild sedative for the mind.
After a brief leave from work things were stable (albeit heavy) for a while. My firstborn was clearly quite confused about my friend’s death and we couldn’t hide my mother’s condition from him, so he wondered about that too. He started to talk about death and cancer uncomfortably often. Daily life went on with ordinary busywork dampening the grief. I even had some good things going for me: we had a short vacation at Crete and a post of mine spent a full day in the front page of Hacker News. The latter would have been a big deal in a normal year. This time though, I only got a passing jolt of joy from it.
Come summer, my mother’s condition worsened. Close friends and family visited her almost every day, partly to spend time with her and partly to help care for her. Daily tasks became difficult for my mother and her memory became fuzzy. It was difficult both to find the time to visit her and to see her in such shape. I was already taking care of my child, and my wife was far along in her pregnancy. So I juggled between responsibilities for family, work and my mother.
In July my mother became bedridden from another condition as a side-effect of the unmitigated, spreading cancer. Soon she was hospitalised. The following week was her last. She was responsive for two days, then gradually faded away. It happened that my sister’s wedding was set to take place that week (she and her husband were married in January in anticipation of my mother’s failing health). The wedding processions took place after considering that it would have been my mother’s preference.
Then, the day after the wedding, my mother passed. It was as if she wanted to stay around ’til the wedding was over. My beautiful and gentle mother had a good life, just too short. She took good care of me and my sister, selflessly setting aside her personal comfort. She had great humour, something she passed to my firstborn. I’m thankful for the borrowed time we had with her, five years in all after the diagnosis.
Only two weeks later our child was born. And so it happened that my mother missed the newborn by such a small margin. One life ended and another began. This outcome has been very hard to accept. My mother could endure all her hardships better knowing that another grandchild was on the way, true. Yet when she understood that the end was near, she pleaded for more time with us. I also feel sorry for the little one, never getting a chance to meet his grandmother, one that my firstborn got to spend a lot of time with.
The following weeks were strange. I was at the same time enamoured with our child and dealing with post-death inevitabilities, like funeral processions. Grief was subdued by the sheer amount of things happening around me. Even at my mother’s funeral, the loss could not be fully felt.
I returned to work a month after the child was born, having been away for two months in total. Throughout the year, I received excellent support at work. My sudden absences and at times diminished output were accepted with compassion and grace. The work itself provided me with something rewarding to focus on, to avoid spending too much time inside my head.
For the rest of the year, grief surfaced gradually. My firstborn often voiced his longing for my mother, and we talked frankly about death. In his words, my mother ”continues her life as a flower [which will grow from her grave]”. Father's Day and Christmastime were especially tough, making the void left by my mother's passing more apparent.
I’m writing this now as an attempt to close the book on the difficult year. Slowly, I’m beginning to feel like I’ve survived these events and that life can go on. After all, my children keep on growing and surprising me with their developments, my family and close friends are all healthy. Unlike 2024, the new year doesn’t look terrifying.
