The Weight I Carried Walking Away From My Desk

This past week held the kind of intensity that leaves you breathless, even after the moment has passed.

My mom has had serious heart issues for as long as I can remember. In the year 2000, she underwent a major open-heart surgery after her superior vena cava was found to be 97% clotted from scar tissue. That scar tissue was the result of nine heart ablations she had previously endured. During the surgery, doctors took a vein or artery from her leg, along with a graft, to rebuild that area of her heart and restore healthy blood flow.

The surgery was rare at the time — and largely unsuccessful for most patients. Many didn’t survive, and those who did were not expected to live long after. The lifespan of the graft they placed was estimated at about 15 years. Somehow, my mom made it 25.

Last October, routine testing revealed something alarming. Three CAT scans confirmed that the graft had started to clog again. And we knew that if anything were to go wrong — even something as small as a tool catching the wrong way — it could cost her her life.

I carried that knowledge heavily. The kind of heaviness that sits in your chest and behind your eyes and inside your bones. I told myself if these were her final days, I wanted them to be beautiful, peaceful, and good. But making that happen takes a quiet strength that can’t be seen, only felt — and it took everything in me.

The moment that hit the hardest was when I left my desk at work the day before her surgery.

It was supposed to be just another moment — standing up, walking away. But something in my body froze. I was instantly transported back to the moment I left my house to go to the vet with Olivia, my soul dog. I was so sure I’d be home with her again. But that wasn’t my reality. I left my house in five minutes flat, and when I returned, I came back to the same room without her. And I had no idea how to move forward.

That memory came crashing down like a wave as I looked at my desk. I knew that I might come back and sit at that same desk as if nothing changed — but there was also the very real chance that when I returned, it would be after taking bereavement leave. That I’d come back motherless. That I’d be starting a life without her physical presence. That feeling is something I cannot put fully into words. But it shook me.

Surgery day arrived. We went to the hospital together — my parents and I — as we always have. But this time felt different. My mom, who has always been calm and brave through every surgery, looked just slightly off. My dad was more quiet than usual. I could feel the fear between us, even if no one was saying it out loud.

And then… a miracle.

The doctor came out and told us there was no scar tissue. None. Blood was flowing beautifully. They didn’t even need to use the balloon to stretch or repair the artery. All they had to do was go in and take a look. That was it. Just like that — a weight lifted, and breath returned.

It was a miracle we didn’t even dare to fully hope for. But we received it anyway.

When you’ve already faced one major loss, and you feel another looming, it changes you. Standing at my desk on Wednesday, unsure of how I would come back to that space, cracked something open in me.

We are so thankful. My mom’s heart is strong. The clot is gone. And yet, my mind, body, and emotions are still catching up. I’ve been on the emotional version of the Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster, and I’m still recovering from the whiplash.

Since Halloween, I’ve braced myself for the possibility of losing my mom more times than I can count. And after losing Olivia so suddenly, it makes every potential goodbye feel even more terrifying.

That’s why I’ve realized this: I can’t keep rushing. I can’t keep burning the candle at both ends trying to do everything all at once. I want to do more marketing, I have ideas I can’t wait to bring to life for Bloom A New You and Olivia’s Healing Paws. But right now, I have to honor my limits.

I needed to help myself before I can keep helping others.

And I think that’s okay.