I died long before you died. I died on the day you were diagnosed with cancer. I’ll never forget the way the news was delivered to me—like: “Oh, hello, I’m an Oncologist. Your son has Stage IV Neuroblastoma. Have a wonderful day.”
I was stunned. Paralyzed. The world was spinning on its axis, and I was trying to comprehend what the hell an Oncologist even was. I collapsed to the floor. I died right then and there.
But I rose from that death. Somehow, I resurrected myself. I stood up, and I fought.
We were hurled into the savage universe of childhood cancer, completely unprepared. And yet—I thought we had a chance. Because of course you were different. You were mine. We belonged to each other. We loved so fiercely that surely the gods above would conspire in our favor and let you stay.
They didn’t. And you died.
And now I will say it, again and again:
Fuck those gods for taking my child.
After you died, I died again—right there beside you, as you exhaled your final, sugar-sweet breaths.
“Come with me, Ronan. Let’s get the FUCK out of this place. Take me with you. Please. I don’t want to stay here alone. I am dead, too.”
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Not once, but twice.
So far in my life, I have died not once—but twice.
You die when your child dies. It’s not poetic, it’s not metaphorical.
It’s biological. Existential.
You die. Again and again.
And yet—somehow—you keep getting reborn.
I have days where I look in the mirror and don’t recognize the person staring back at me.
Who are you today?
I ask the stranger in the glass.
It’s always a new face, but the same eyes—those haunted, grief-laced green eyes that burn with pain, fury, and fire. Eyes that look like the gates of hell cracked open and never fully closed.
Do you know how I navigate the world now, Ronan? How I know what kind of day it’s going to be?
Lip gloss.
Yes—lip gloss.
What the fuck kind of system is that? I don’t know. But it works.
Somehow, it’s the only thing that does.
No lip gloss = a very bad day.
Clear or light = calm, maybe even peaceful.
Bright or red = extra spicy, do-not-fuck-with-me energy.
Red lipstick? God help whoever crosses me. Someone’s about to get torched.
Before you died, I didn’t need this language. I wore lip gloss because it was cute. Because it sparkled. Because it made me feel beautiful in that lighthearted, girly way.
Now? Now I wear it like war paint.
I don’t wear it to feel pretty. I never feel pretty anymore. I feel gutted. Disfigured by grief.
Lip gloss has become my imaginary friend. My lifeline. My emotional code for survival.
Didn’t think I was crazy before? You probably do now.
But I’m fine with the crazy. I’ve made peace with the version of myself that had to die in order to keep living.
Last night was hell. I tossed and turned until almost 5 a.m. Beat up some pillows. Sent some lunatic emails to the one person close enough to us to handle them. Emails like:
“What was I thinking, coming here without my Ambien?! I need to take 5, 6, or 7. Or I just need my son back so I can sleep again. Can you bring him back for me? I know you can’t. But I thought I’d ask. G’nite, lovie.”
Eventually I cried, wrote, thought, and missed you enough to fall asleep. I woke up today heavy, but with some manic kind of energy running through me like wildfire. Must go. Must do. Must distract.
I went to visit someone I hadn’t seen in years—someone who helped shape me in those chaotic, coming-of-age teenage years. Someone who saw me at my wildest, my most dramatic, my most me. She watched me go from girl to woman—and now to this: the shattered adult version.
I walked in like a stray dog. Head low. Tail tucked.
She looked like she’d seen a ghost.
We hugged. I didn’t want to let go.
“Hi,” I said, eyes on the floor.
“Oh, Maya. I think about you all the time. But look at you—you’re doing it. You don’t have a choice. I don’t know what to say. You’re such a good person. You didn’t deserve this.”
Cue the hysteria I tried to choke back.
“I don’t know what happened. Or how. Or why. I did everything right. I did everything I thought I was supposed to do to build a good life—and this still happened. To my baby. How?? Why???”
Of course, there were no answers. Just sympathy. Maybe pity.
God, I hope not pity. I never want that.
We didn’t talk long. It didn’t need to be long. As I was leaving, she said she felt honored that I came.
Honored? No. It’s just me.
I would always come see you. I’m still that girl.
I don’t want you to see me as some broken-hearted ghost you feel honored to host.
See me as I was—the girl who didn’t know what it meant to ache this way.
But I can’t go back to being her. That life is over. That version of me is extinct.
And whatever this new life is… it changes every day.
Some days, I can barely look at it.
Tomorrow is almost here. I have a favor to ask.
You all know Dr. JoRo. She’s one of the people who’s kept me alive through this. Before her, I had no hope. She gave me that back. She gave me breath. She gave me belief.
Tomorrow, her baby girl, Cheyanne, would have turned 18—if she hadn’t died during birth.
It’s because of that loss that I even know Dr. Jo. And god, I hate that. I wish I never had to meet her. I wish she just had her daughter instead.
But because of fate’s cruelty, this is how it is. And because of Cheyanne, Dr. Jo created International Kindness Day—which happens tomorrow.
Over one million acts of kindness have been done around the world because of it.
So tomorrow, I’m asking you to do one.
Something kind. Something simple. Hold a door open. Smile at a stranger. Leave a note. Pick up the phone. Make someone feel seen.
Even the smallest gestures can change everything.
Thank you, lovies. You’re the best blogosphere friends a girl could ask for. I love you.
G’nite, Ronan.
I miss you. I love you. I hope you are safe.
Sweet dreams, baby doll.
I love you to the moon and back.
xoxo
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