It’s after 7am…and I have to log into work by 9am.

I’ve been up since roughly 1am, and although my body is physically exhausted and showing stress signs (i.e., tense shoulders, worse vision, decreased mental sharpness, mild chest and neck pain), my mind refuses to let me rest.

I’ve battled insomnia for over a month now. I struggled with it in the past, but I thought I put it behind me once I got to the acceptance stage of grief (circa March 2021 ~ five months post-Mom’s transition). But it seems insomnia is as sneaky as grief itself. It appears that it’s always lingering, waiting to pounce on the vulnerable.

I landed a new job last month and it’s been an adjustment. My work isn’t stressing me out per se, but the idea that I couldn’t share my success with Mom cut my soul. Therapists offer survival tips for the holidays and the dark times, but what about when things are going well and you can’t tell your loved one? The moment my offer letter came, it brought on a new breed of grief, one for which I wasn’t prepared. My boss even cried during our celebratory call because even he thought about my loss and how my mom might feel.

Yes, I know my mother would be proud of me. I always fought to be the perfect daughter. I was never suspended, I was HS valedictorian, I graduated college–I even switched industries and entered the tech world, while fretting about Mom’s inevitable passing in the half decade since college and her diagnosis. For me, it hasn’t been 2016 to 2021–it’s been 2016 to 2036.

For me, it hasn’t been 2016 to 2021–it’s been 2016 to 2036.

From my analysis, sleeping was rough last night because this week marks one year since the hospital doctors recommended palliative care for my mom. I held my Galaxy S7 to my ear as the apartment I once shared with Mom blurred. I didn’t want to believe the news.

“A lot of times, when we mention palliative care, people think about a hospice,” the lady doctor said. “But it doesn’t mean that.”

She was obviously trying to soften the blow, but I knew palliative care meant there was little time left with Mom in her human form. I just wasn’t ready to accept it.

In addition to flashbacks from Mom’s declining health, I was also triggered by my boyfriend’s coughing, throat clearing, and discomfort last night. He has the same condition Mom did. It’s painful for me to love him because his heart health is so similar to my Mom’s. He’s a sweet guy, but my PTSD is getting to me. My mom died in her bed. What if my boyfriend dies in mine?

Fuck heart disease.