Last August I found myself nervously Googling “parents died of same cancer.” It was a desperate moment (the kind someone very recently orphaned finds themselves in) to locate someone, anyone, who had lost half their family to cancer. Lung cancer, specifically. It took both my parents before my sister and I had the chance to have families of our own, before we had truly “grown up,” and has left me overwhelmed by grief as I try to accept the loss of four of us becoming two in just a short few years.

My father died in 2010 after a long battle with lung cancer. As carers for my Dad, we saw how hard he struggled to hang on to the life he loved so dearly. His battle with losing his independence and function was heart breaking and as his daughters we were faced with losing our foundation- stronger than concrete and steady as they come. His journey from a successful, enigmatic man to a dying cancer patient was profoundly traumatic as the unraveling of a life often is. When the pain and panic attacks became stronger than the strongest man I’d ever known, and after a six-day coma, his heart accepted his fate and we said goodbye. Almost immediately upon his passing my sister and I wholeheartedly agreed that our worst nightmare would be to lose our mother. Although our parents were long separated our mom comforted us as we navigated our way through the unpredictable rivers of grief. The experience was trans-formative for us all and the loss was powerful, painful and full of lessons. Sorrow changed us and we found that our empathy developed as a deep and invaluable skill guiding us through the next phase of our lives. I missed him, the world was shaky and scary without him, but I felt proud of caring for him, loving him to the end and helping him accept his death.

It took a few years to build back the lives we’d left behind since “cancer” had marched in. Relationships suffered and ultimately ended, but new paths were set. New beginnings and even new love was found and things were beginning to calm. I even slowly began to plan for the future.

Until a call in early July. The unimaginable. Stage 4 lung cancer (familiar words to us now.) It had spread before we knew it had even crept in. Bones, liver, brain. No, she isn’t a candidate for surgery. No, she won’t be able for chemo.

She wasn’t going to make it.

My mom didn’t have long. This spectacularly loving woman was going to die. In the end, it was 6 weeks from diagnosis till we were standing at yet another crematorium collecting the ashes of the woman who gave us life. She was my very best friend.

In the immediate weeks following her death I experienced an almost unconscious state of shock. Logically, I knew she had died as I planned her memorial service and emptied her apartment, but the brain and heart can serve as miraculous organs of protection. I simply felt nothing. In a state of constant dismay I would ask those around me how could the loss of someone whom I loved so dearly not manifest itself in devastating grief? How could I be so OK with her being gone? A counselor advised me that in time it would come and the discomfort of nothingness would be replaced by waves of crippling pain. She promised that it was around the corner, and she wasn’t wrong.

The “grief,” a term I’ve grown to dislike in so many ways as it infers a medical condition of some sort, was paralyzing in those immediate few months. Thoughts of the woman I loved so dearly, the cancer, the fear, the anguish (both hers and mine,) dominated my heart from morning till night- sleeping pills were needed to achieve any kind of sleep. I ached to speak to her. To hold her hand. I begged a God I don’t believe in to bring her back to me. I sent her texts. I wore her t-shirts. I kept one of her hair scrunchies on my bedside table. I used her hairbrush. As I got down to tie my shoes it is her hands I saw. I would wander around for hours alone as it is the only place I could be with her and mourn her without having to qualify my feelings.

The world became such a surreal place that even my surroundings and the people left in my life seemed unfamiliar now that she’d gone. A mother is the very core of who you are and everything felt different without her. And whoever I was before she died seemed to leave with her and what was left was a broken, angry, empty shadow. Friends and family who couldn’t handle the double dose of tragedy scattered fast and the remaining ones patiently waited for gaps in the sobs to express their empathy, which was often met with the vicious bite of pain that comes with bereavement. Loss is often met with misunderstanding, frustration and avoidance, a lesson quickly learned by those of us left behind. Empathy is rarely discussed, which leaves mourners in a very vulnerable position. Deep compassion, love and understanding are truly the only prescription for sorrow. Despite their best intentions, not everyone can deliver that, which only makes things more difficult for both parties. Even for the strongest survivors, grief requires endless support and understanding. Lines are drawn and friendships strained. People want you to be “inspirational,” a rising Phoenix. “At least you have so many happy memories.” “It’s important to keep positive.” Phrases all said with good intentions, but foreign to the recently bereaved.

The loss of your parents is the loss of unconditional love. Losing that is a monumental transition. Friends, partners, even siblings can walk away if they choose. But mothers and fathers stay. They love and they love and then they love some more. Even when you don’t deserve it. Even when you don’t want them to. They answer the phone at 3am and they call before and after your doctor’s appointments. They want what is best for you. At least mine did. They were flawed, like all of us are, but they were two of the finest parents you could ever meet.

I feel their absence every single day, but on special days like birthdays and Christmas the loneliness is almost unmanageable. When everyone is heading home to their parents, some even grandparents, it is hard not to feel alienated. I’ve pushed through these months somehow, making it through Christmas, my birthday and both of theirs. None of them were easy, and although time provides relief, there won’t be a single holiday or life-changing event that I won’t wish they could share in.

Thankfully, early after my mother passed I took the advice of a close friend who sadly had recently lost her own parents to take care of myself. At first I didn’t understand what she meant but forcing myself to sleep well and eat right meant I felt stronger when the waves of sadness rolled in. I still worked hard everyday at work and on myself. I quit smoking. I exercised. I read as much as I could about loss of all kinds and practiced keeping self-pity at the door. Healthy control in the midst of emotional chaos was invaluable advice and could only have been passed down from someone who had experienced the same kind of suffering.

My mom and dad will never be grandparents and they’ll never grow old. They won’t see us raise families or enjoy their retirement. The people who taught me how to walk, how to speak, how to love and how to live are gone forever. And I will miss them until it is my time to go. This isn’t the part where I say I think they are watching over me in heaven, because that is not my belief, but I hope that the parents that they were made me strong enough to face this next chapter with grace, love and empathy. Traits I’ve grown to respect above all. And I hope I can do them proud.