This article isn’t just for those of us who have already lost a parent, and in fact, I’d argue that this might be most important for the ones who haven’t, because what better time to learn to go crawl into bed with your parents and tell them you love them than when they are still here to do so?

I was 19 when my mom, who was only 52-years-old, was diagnosed with Stage 4 Glioblastoma--a very aggressive and terminal brain cancer. By the time the tumor was discovered, it was the size of an orange. My family was extremely lucky that the doctors were able to immediately operate and remove the tumor, but we knew that being as aggressive as it was that it wouldn’t take much time for it to come back.

Like any normal person, as soon as I found out the name of the mass on her brain, I searched Google hoping for some good news, but what I found shook my world and ripped my heart out of my chest and obliterated it to pieces. According to American Brain Tumor Association, “For adults with more aggressive glioblastoma, treated with concurrent temozolamide and radiation therapy, median survival is about 14.6 months and two-year survival is 30%.”

I thought for sure the doctor would give us better news, but when he came into the room and gave us all a very bleak prognosis, we all fall apart. The statistics broke us.

Of course, like always, my beautiful mom told us everything would be alright, that she was a fighter and that this wouldn’t defeat her. And I wish I could say it didn’t, and in a way I suppose I can, because up until the week before my mom died, she was always still my mom. Though her body and mind slowly began to deteriorate, she still laughed, smiled and held me when I cried.

But, as cruel as it is, in the time it takes to flip a switch, cancer overtook my mom. One day I was sitting in bed with her laughing, taking selfies and watching hours and hours of "Roseanne," and then two days later, she could hardly walk, or talk and we all knew “this was it.” It had been 21 months.

She was admitted to the hospital five days after my 21st birthday, October 29, 2013, and was in and out of coherency until she slipped into eternity early in the morning on November 4, 2013.

When I look back over the almost two years I had with her when I knew she was dying, I’m filled with regret. Yes, I was there as much as I “could” be, I checked in at least almost every day, by phone or in person if I could. I quit school for a semester so I could take her to radiation every day. I took her on walks and to the movies, I lay in bed and watched TV and laughed with her. But I wasn’t there like I should have been. I didn’t take her swimming when she told me that she really wanted to go. I thought there would be more time. We didn’t get the chance to go to the bar together to drink Tequila Sunrises since I was her youngest, and the last to be of age, because she only had four good days between the time I was legal to drink, to when cancer consumed what was left of her mind. I didn’t make it a priority to spend my 21st birthday with my mom because I was too concerned with spending it downtown like everyone else. I thought there would be more time. And since I didn’t prioritize the way I should have, I never got that opportunity to have that drink with my funny and beautiful mom. And I never will.

I will never get another chance to take her swimming, or have a drink, or go for a walk, or watch "Roseanne," or just stop over to tell her that I love her, and give her a kiss and feel her arms around me again. Those moments are gone forever.

Since she has been gone, the grief is like an underground rollercoaster. No one sees the crushing pain that I feel because I don’t show it. Why do I keep it so private? Simple, I hate showing my emotions, it makes me feel awkward. So when I’m home alone at night, in my bed, that is when I fall apart. I let the pain that has been clinging so heavy to heart take over, and I cry out for the only person who could make it go away, and fall asleep dreaming of her warm embrace.

So, for the people out there who have lost a parent or is currently watching their parent battling a disease and are only going through day to day just getting by, you are not alone. There are so many of us out there struggling with a very real physical and emotional pain. Besides this article, I myself know that I prefer to suffer alone, and unless I’ve had one too many drinks, I’m not likely to reach out about losing my mom, but if you feel yourself capable of reaching out, then I urge you to do so. You could make waves for someone who is swallowed up in their grief.

And for those of you incredibly lucky souls who have not lost a parent, go to them, and if you can’t go to them, call them. I don’t care if you are 18, or 28, you are never too old to crawl into bed with your parents and appreciate their beating hearts. Because one day their hearts will stop beating, and yours will be broken. So take your parents swimming, go for a walk with them, be a grown ass adult and spend the night on their couch so you can all stay up late watching movies and eating food that is really bad for you. You get one chance with them, and I didn’t utilize mine the way I should have, so don’t make the same mistake, go tell them you love them, and give them a hug, and then don’t let go.

In Loving Memory

June Markland Pierson

06/30/59 - 11/04/13

Here's to our last day.