01/14/1963 - 04/12/2024

Brenda Whitt

My mom died from cholangiocarcinoma in April of 2024. She passed while I was on a van bound for Georgia, surrounded by some of my closest friends and teammates. Coach turned the van around, allowing me to make it home to see her one last time at the cost of arriving at their hotel at a decent hour. It was the longest drive I've ever driven.

She started fighting the cancer in late 2022, and began receiving medical tests while I was half a world away in Northern Ireland. I was enjoying chicken "goujons" while she was being pricked and prodded for medical diagnostics. Mom and Dad didn't tell me the extent of it until I got back; they wanted me to enjoy my time abroad, which was so characteristic. Always considering my well-being before theirs.

I didn't understand the situation, not fully. I'm not an idiot, nor am I uneducated. Usually. This was perhaps the only time in my life that I chose to be ignorant, avoiding discussions about Mom's appointments and refraining from internet researching her condition. I wanted to receive the hope that only ignorance could deliver. So when my dad pulled me aside and, with a shaking voice, told me the next months or years would be hard, I didn't believe him. I didn't want to hear it, I didn't want to think about it. How could I? 20 years old with at least three semesters of school and two tennis seasons remaining, it might've broken me to spiral into internet forums, anxiety, and hopelessness.

For a long while, hope worked. Brenda fought so hard; she chose the strong chemo, and her growths showed shrinkage. In between visits to hospitals and cancer centers in Texas, my parents - Mom included - made their best effort to support the team and me at our tennis matches. Home and away! That was awesome of her, because at the same time she smiled at me, it was obvious how much pain she was in. The treatment worked, though, and her health improved. She was able to eat and keep food down, didn't have as much constant pain, and even moved more easily. It felt like her goal of seeing me graduate was attainable.

The doctors approved her for the radiation procedure meant to attack the larger growths directly. What should have been a major step forward seemingly caused more harm than good. The progress she'd made quickly reversed, her symptoms becoming more acute with every passing week.

At perhaps the lowest, most self-centered point of my life, I nearly said no to going on my last family vacation. No one told me it would be the last, but no one had to. I was entrenched in my senior year fall semester, undoubtedly the hardest yet, and hardest to come. Worried I might harm my GPA if I spent time away from my laptop doing assignments. Absolutely pathetic. By the grace of God, I made the correct decision and flew to Florida during my fall break. I hadn't seen Mom in some time before the trip, yet by the end of the week, my hope had all but vanished.

It is not my intention, nor my willingness, to put my mom's suffering on display. I never used her as an excuse or to seek pity from others; she deserves more than that. I will skip the details of her deteriorating health, but my last comment is that she handled her situation far better than I could.

I have lots of regrets from the experience. Foremost among them is not getting to spend more time with her and not talking to her more. I was caught up with my job, school, tennis, and avoiding the situation that I didn't even do the easy thing of calling her. Now, with all the wisdom of hindsight, I see how trivial my "distractions" truly were. The woman who cared for me more than anyone else sat suffering, and I couldn't pick up the phone.

As time's endless march moves me further away from her memory, I loathe my healing. At first, the wound burned hot. I couldn't go a day, even hours, without thinking about her. I'd do something interesting or new and imagine telling her about it the next time I saw her, only to crash down to reality upon remembering her absence. I would often cry at her memory. Some inconspicuous thought would turn my mood melancholic, and I'd simply spiral from there. But now, the tears don't come so easily, and I go hours, sometimes days, without true thoughts of Mom. I hate it. I don't want time to heal my wound because it doesn't feel fair. I know that she wouldn't want me to feel guilt or shame, that she would want it to get easier for me, but that doesn't make it easier.

I don't believe in teaching wisdom. I cannot tell you my story and trust you to not make the same mistakes I did. Wisdom is experienced, not heard or seen, but I believe her story deserves to be told. That she deserves to be remembered. One of my only good memories from visiting her in the hospital came from a compliment I gave her. If you ever met Brenda, her laugh was loud, contagious, and always accompanied by a nice big smile. It wasn't a perfect smile - no, she'd never had the privilege of braces and actually had a rather wicked snaggletooth - but it was earnest, and wholesome, and true. I made her laugh as I was leaving one day and told her, "You have a great smile." And she told me to remember it; she wanted me to remember her smile on future days that were important to me. She gave me so much, everything she could, and the least I can do is honor her wishes.

Don't fool yourself into believing you're too busy to call, that you'll get around to it another time. We aren't guaranteed another time.