Melissa’s Story
My name is Melissa, and I am, unfortunately, part of the club of motherless daughters.
My mother, Deborah, was everything to everyone. She was a single mother of four—three boys and me, her only daughter. She was strong, selfless, and the kind of woman who took care of everyone else before herself.
In November 2016, she began complaining of back pain and ongoing sinus issues. She went to the doctor a few times, which was unusual for her—she hated medical settings and had what they call “white coat syndrome.” She was also the type of person who didn’t want to burden or worry anyone, so she downplayed her symptoms.
By March 2017, her condition had worsened significantly. She had lost weight, had no appetite, was extremely fatigued, and one day couldn’t even stand. She called me to come over, and when I saw her, I barely recognized her. She looked like a shell of herself—gaunt, gray, and unable to keep down even a sip of water.
I called an ambulance, and she was taken to the ER, where she was admitted for what was initially thought to be pneumonia. After two days, due to shadowing seen on her X-ray, doctors planned to perform a lung biopsy.
On the morning of March 21, I went to work briefly before heading to the hospital. Because I work in the medical field, I understood the terminology and knew many of the doctors. I also knew I needed to be her advocate because she was scared.
When I arrived, she had just returned from an X-ray and was struggling. Her oxygen levels were low, and she was clearly not feeling well. I remember rubbing her back, encouraging her to take deep breaths. She asked for something to help her relax—which was unlike her, as she rarely even took Tylenol. They gave her Ativan.
About 30 minutes later, she suddenly sat up and began panting. I tried to reassure her, thinking it might be a reaction to the medication. But her breathing became shallow, and I noticed her nail beds turning blue. Then everything escalated—her hands turned inward, she began convulsing, her eyes rolled back. I was screaming for help.
A code was called, and the room quickly filled with doctors and nurses. They worked on her for what felt like forever. I remember standing in the hallway, alone, calling my brothers. At one point, a doctor told me to come speak to her—that she could still hear me. That moment is something that has stayed with me ever since.
After about 30 minutes, the doctor came to me. I could see it on his face before he even spoke. He held my hands and said, “I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.”
They believed it was a cardiac arrest or embolism. Because her death was so sudden, we chose to have an autopsy.
In late April 2017, we received the results: Stage 4 colorectal cancer, which had metastasized to every vital organ in her body.
She had been advised to get a colonoscopy starting at age 50, at every annual physical—but she never did. At 68 years old, she lost her life to what is often called a silent killer.
There are no words to fully describe the grief that followed—the days, weeks, months, and even years. It felt like someone suddenly turned the music off. Even nine years later, it still feels unreal at times.
Since losing her, I have made it my mission to advocate for my family and others to prioritize their health, get screened, and understand their family history. A colonoscopy may seem intimidating, but it is not—the preparation is the hardest part. The procedure itself takes about 20 minutes and can truly save your life.
If you still have your parents, please do not take your time with them for granted. And if they are stubborn about their health, be the person who encourages them to take care of themselves—especially as they get older.
Grief is not linear. It is messy, unpredictable, and lifelong. The truth is, it never fully goes away—it becomes a part of you. The only way through it is to go through it.
With love,
Melissa
