Too Far to Hold Her Hand: The Pain of Losing Mom While Living Abroad

This was the hardest post I’ve ever written. It took me far longer than I expected (2 weeks). There were parts were I wasn’t sure I could go on. But when I feel intensely — be it the peaks of joy or the depths of grief, I must write about it. So I did what my body told me to do. And it was so healing. So helpful. So important.

So, I’ve already done what I need to do. And now I’m sharing it with the world, in case it might help someone else, in some little way, feel less alone.

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My mom died three weeks ago.

She was 77 and had stage 2 cancer. It was completely unexpected.

She had one day left of an intensive 6-week course of chemo and radiation. But she got sick.

And when she missed our regular Saturday morning call and didn't message, I knew it wasn't just a cold.

Particularly when she didn't message the next day either.

Or the day after that.

Sick with worry and on the other side of the world, I had been messaging with her husband Michael — Mom had remarried after my dad passed from cancer 7 years ago.

Course it didn't help things that Mom was in Mexico, and I was in Thailand. It had been a pretty extreme distance back when Dad had been sick too.

Michael told me that he was going to take her for her final chemo treatment.

Knowing full well the weaknesses of the Mexican medical system having seen my dad go through it, I insisted she see a doctor first.

He relented and got a GP to make a house call. After examination, the GP insisted that she be admitted to hospital for severe dehydration.

She stayed there for 3 days. How I wish I had spoken to one of the doctors then. Michael had sent me a message saying that she had been diagnosed with salmonella, which I found very odd, but understood that it was probably because of her poor immune system from the chemo.

I ran it through ChatGPT, together with all of her medical records, and it said this kind of thing was normal.

Your mom is very sick

I was under the impression she had been released from hospital after those 3 days, but would find out later that she had insisted on going home, and the doctors had said that she could get the same IV there.

She called me from her bed a few days later. As sick and weak as she was, she was still insisting on going to her final chemo treatment.

“Mom, I just think it's a good idea for you to go see a doctor first,” I'd nudged.

Some background here: Mom’s health insurance had lapsed years ago. And because of her pre-existing conditions, she had been unable to find coverage that she could afford. So when she got diagnosed with cancer, I was worried.

I’d suggested she go back to Canada, but she would have to wait the requisite 3 months to qualify for Canadian healthcare again, not to mention find housing and navigate returning to her country of origin and all of the paperwork and bureaucracy that would come with that — something that she absolutely wasn't up for. Plus, the doctor who diagnosed her told her that without treatment, she had 6 months to a year to live.

So her financial situation forced her to seek treatment at a government cancer hospital in Guadalajara. The hospital seemed like a good one, but with one major drawback: she would have extremely limited interaction with doctors and nurses, all her sessions would be administered by technicians. We would get no phone number to call, no WhatsApp contact, nothing. It was impossible to contact the doctor outside of her monthly appointment slot. Even as a fluent Spanish speaker (which I am not, but the friends I asked for help from were).

She had an appointment with her oncologist on the Monday. “I don't see what difference a couple days will make Mom, please just wait… for me?”

“Kaila please don't make me see the doctor first,” she dug her heels in for a final time in almost a whisper.

“Mom, I can't make you do anything. I'm in Thailand, you're in Mexico. You're a grown woman. I can't stop you. But I disagree.”

“Okay well thank you, I would like to go. Of course, I may not be up for it. And if I'm not, then I will wait.”

We said our I love yous and hung up. I didn't know that that would be the last time I’d ever speak to her.

The next day, Michael told me that she didn't make it to the chemo treatment because she was too sick. He told me there was a nurse coming in with an IV.

When I asked what the doctor said when she was released, Michael told me that they had diagnosed her with salmonella and given her antibiotics that had helped her keep things down.

It seemed like her condition was improving.

And then, on Sunday, we got the devastating news that Fraser’s 32-year-old cousin Mikey had passed away. Fraser had been like brothers with him growing up, and we both loved him tremendously.

We were completely in shock and beside ourselves with grief, and planning our trip to Scotland to be with Fraser's family and pay our final respects to our dear Mikey, when I got a message on Monday morning from Michael:

“The nurse is here. She says your mom is very sick. The doctor will be here later tonight.”

“What does that mean exactly? Can he/she elaborate please? Can I call?”

“I'll let you know when the doctor comes and you can talk to him.”

My heart sank. This wasn't good. But having no idea just how bad it was, I decided to go to the villa we're building (to sell), to work on the murals I’d been painting.

Nothing to be done

Couple hours later, my phone rings. “It's Michael. The doctor is here, I'll put him on. It's… not good.”

My breath caught in my throat as I braced myself, now pretty sure what was coming. I'd received a similar call years before when my parents told me my dad had 2 months to live.

Phone wedged between my head and shoulder, hands trembling, I washed my paint brushes in the stone sink as the doctor used all kinds of medical terminology to explain how my mother’s condition had gotten so grave.

I knew it was coming before he said it. I paced the empty living room as I tried to wrap my mind around her depleted levels of albumin — a word I'd never even heard before today — and edema in her tissue. Finally:

“I'd give her 72 hours, tops. And honestly, I don't think she'll last that long. You probably won't make it in time from Thailand.”

I dropped to the floor, clutching at the wall. My hands shook so viciously could barely hold the phone. Devastation gathered in my throat like a clog in the sink. My face screwed up into a scream that didn't come out.

I pleaded with him. “There must be something that can be done. What if money was no object? What extreme measures could be taken?”

But at this point, in this location, it was a done deal. “Even if there were a way to get her into the city tomorrow, if she were to last that long, I highly doubt that they would have the medication needed and I think it would be too late anyway.”

The lump in my throat gathered in size as I tried to swallow past it.

After a few more desperate questions, I gave in. “Thank you, Doctor.”

He hung up. Dizzy, I called Fraser — his line was busy. “Drop whatever you're doing please,” I begged. “And call me back, it's urgent.”

Within a minute, he called back. I told him the news. “Stay right there, I'm coming,” he responded.

In a haze, with laboured breath, I gathered my things and walked slowly to my car. I knew I couldn't wait until he arrived. Once in the car, I shakily called my best friend Juliette.

I have wondered more than a few times since that day about what it must have been like to be on the other end of that phone call.

Because I didn't say hi. I didn't explain what had happened.

I just started hyperventilating, bawling, and screaming into the phone. I couldn't make words.

And bless her, she just let me do it.

Eventually, I was able to talk and give her details about what the doctor had told me. “So you mean the doctor just told you that you will never see your mom again?” We both burst into tears.

Finally, Fraser arrived. I'd been wandering down the road in shock. He held me by the waist and put me in the car. I was cried out and fuzzy.

Once at the house, we video called Michael. He was in shock too. But as an ex-marine, he had always hid his emotion well.

“I thought she was having a stroke,” he explained. “I had no idea it was going to be this bad.”

“Can I speak to her?”

“She doesn't look good.”

“I don't care.”

He took the phone and put it next to Mom's ear. I couldn't see her face. I knelt next to my tablet and spoke to her. I told her how much I loved her, and how strong she was, and how proud of her I was. And how I was coming as soon as I could, and if she could just hold on for me, but how I also completely understood if she couldn't.

After a time, Michael asked if I would like to see her.

I shuddered. He hadn't exaggerated. Her body was visibly giving up.

After we hung up, Fraser came straight over and wrapped his arms around me. No tears came. I felt empty and cold. Dizzier than before.

We asked our closest friends on the island to pick up Hudson from school so that we could concentrate on what needed to be done and set straight to booking my flights. The doctor may not have thought that I could make it in time, but I had to try.

Ten of cups, reversed

Booking international flights is stressful at the best of times, let alone in an emergency situation like this.

After much deliberation, we finally booked me on a flight that left the next day at 11:00 a.m. It was the quickest we could get that wasn't self-transfer (where the airline does not take responsibility if you miss the next flight).

But we only booked to LA, because the flight path that Skyscanner had me on had me arriving in LA at nighttime, and flying out the next day late morning, arriving late afternoon. Not good enough.

We managed to find a red-eye that would get me into Guadalajara, an hour from where she lives, at 6:00 a.m. Also still not good enough, but the best we could do.

It wasn't until we were double checking my flight information later on that I realised that the red-eye we had booked was flying out of what said “Ontario, CA,” — which I interpreted as Ontario, Canada, but we figured out after much confusion that there is apparently an Ontario, Los Angeles, California, 1.5 to 2 hours from LAX. It was far too risky. We had to rebook the flight. Luckily, I managed to find the same flight flying out of LAX and arriving at the same time. But it was $600 down the drain.

Flights booked, I turned my attention to packing. We had just moved out of our house, since the owner had a short-term booking that he told us about when we moved in (the housing crunch is such on the island that we were forced to accept these terms when we'd moved in in October last year). So all of my winter stuff was in storage on the other side of the island.

Short on time, I managed to scrape together some yoga pants and a jean jacket I'd borrowed from a friend, and asked Juliette to bring me all of her winter clothes when she picked me up from the ferry the next day. She lives on the next island over — the one with the airport — and had offered to drive me to my flight. And as luck would have it, we are the same size.

We didn't get to bed until late that night. Which is why I was surprised that my body woke me up at 5:25 a.m. when my alarm was set for 6.

But I'm learning to listen to my intuition, so I didn't go back to sleep. Instead I woke up, made a tea, lit a candle, got my tarot cards and sat quietly on my meditation mat.

At 5:45, I received a message from Michael.

I read the message aloud to Fraser, who was up too. He ran over and hugged me so hard I think he was trying to squeeze the tears out of me, but they didn't come.

I was in shock.

Note: I would later learn that Mom passed at 3:33 pm Mexico time. I am looking for a tarot expert and numerologist to consult about the meaning of all of this, if anyone knows of any, please let me know in the comments!

My boat was at 8:00 a.m. Once Hudson was fed and dressed and I told him his Abu had passed away. He didn't really fully understand. Then I told him I was going to Mexico and he was going to Scotland with his daddy.

“You're going to do a lot of growing up over the coming month, my boy,” I told him, stroking his hair.

He beamed at me. “And then I can go on the big boy slide at the waterpark?”

“We'll have to see,” I winked at him. What I hadn't told him yet was that our plans were for Fraser and him to fly out the next day to Scotland, and Fraser would leave Hudson with his grandparents.

No more rush

When we got to the ferry, my girlfriend Tyler was waiting for me with a homemade takeaway coffee and chia pudding. This touched my heart to no end, and I made a mental note that this is an excellent thing to do for a friend who has to leave in an emergency.

Juliette met me at the other side. I told her Mom was gone. She hugged me and we sobbed, boat passengers and taxi drivers bustling around us.

I tried on her winter clothes in the airport parking lot — they all fit, but I needed to double check as her pants are sometimes too small for me depending on how many donuts I had last month. Not this time, they fit fine.

We had coffee together once I’d checked in and then we had to part ways. I promised I’d let her know when I got to Mexico, and after another long hug, off I went.

I boarded the plane that would take me to Hong Kong, where I’d have an 8-hour layover that I ended up spending in a crappy airport lounge with uncomfortable seats, poor WiFi, and very few vegetarian options. Luckily, I’d packed the copy of The Women Who Run With The Wolves that I’d serendipitously bought a few weeks before that felt ideal for this occasion, so I put my nose into that to pass the time.

Now that I’m pretty much an expert on flying from Thailand to Mexico and back again — particularly in emergencies. So I had already worked out that I needed to keep myself awake until my long-haul flight, and even on that flight, I would have to restrict my sleep to 5 hours so that I could sleep on the red-eye scheduled to leave LAX at 1 a.m., and land in Guadalajara at 6 a.m.

Fast forward: it almost worked. I did indeed manage to successfully limit my sleep to 5 hours on the long-haul, so that I didn’t feel absolutely destroyed when I got to LAX. I had a few hours to kill at LAX before I could check in to my Volaris flight to Guadalajara, so I tried to check in online. But because Volaris is the worst airline in the world, their website wouldn’t even load. So I was pretty frustrated when they told me they’d oversold the flight and that since I hadn’t checked in online, I had two options: a refund for the flight, or fly standby.

Since the rush was over, knowing Mom was already on her way to heaven, I decided to take the refund and get an airport hotel. The red-eye was no longer necessary, and sleep was. (As was a shower.)

Side note: I’m still waiting for that refund and have little hope now that I will actually get it. NEVER fly Volaris if you can avoid it!

I got a room at the airport Renaissance for the night where I took several baths and got a great sleep.

Next morning I headed back to LAX for my early afternoon flight that would get me into Guadalajara in the evening. My friend Carey, who’d been a good friend of my dad’s and then became close with my mom after he passed, and who had offered me her casita for my stay, had also offered to pick me up.

She had gone over to Mom and Michael's when I told her things had taken a turn for the worse the day before. Mom was already unconscious when she arrived. Carey had gotten into bed with Mom, held her hand, and told her that I was coming. But she also said that it was okay if she couldn't hold on.

Carey would tell me later that Mom opened her eyes for a good 3 seconds when she did this.

My original plan had been to go straight to Michael's. But his daughter had messaged me letting me know that she had come down to be with him. Which was good, because I wasn't ready to go over. I was still in shock, and not ready to face my mom's house without her in it.

Crumpled chest, fully exhaled

Once we arrived, Carey showed me to my casita. It was perfect. Sun-drenched windows, a fully equipped kitchen, white-washed brick walls, a comfortable bed and a spacious ensuite.

And special bonus: a hearth where I could build an alter to Mom.

Fraser, who had flown to Scotland with Hudson, arrived a few days later. He'd had to get a new passport in Glasgow upon arrival, because he didn't have enough pages in his passport to get to Mexico. But he would have a hell of a time with his flights. The first flight he booked out didn't properly book, so he was home from the airport an hour after leaving (only the last leg booked from the US to Mexico… we are still trying to get a refund for that). The second flight went through Paris and Dallas, and he forgot that he needed an ESTA visa to fly through the States. So he tried to book one in a panic while standing in line at the airport, but unfortunately the flight left before the visa came through.

His third attempt was hairy too — with a flight delay in France that nearly cost him the entire trip, but thanks to the kindness of airport staff who noticed how badly he was shaking with stress and grief and took pity on him and rushed him through, he made it.

When he finally arrived, we collapsed into each other's arms.

The first week was a haze. I frequented the church around the corner from my friends’ place (I’m not religious but it felt right there). We went to Mom's and talked to Michael, had him over for dinner, took him out to dinner, cooked for our hosts Carey and her husband Thomas and their other guest Guy who had given up the casita for us and moved into their second bedroom when he'd heard we were coming. Towards the end of the week though, the shock was starting to wear off and the real pain was starting to set in.

The pain was and is a whole new pain I'd never felt before. In my worst moments, my chest starts to crumple. My diaphragm squeezes inwards, like it's trying to swallow my heart and my lungs collapse. Songs that permeated my childhood swirl on repeat in my head as if to taunt me. My heart feels empty and numb and all I can think is how I have no one left in the world. And while I know that's not true, that's how it feels. And I just want to crawl under a blanket, and I usually do, and hide from the world because I don't know how to do this life without the two people who brought me into it. I don't want to have to figure it out. And then the tears come, sometimes with sound, usually moaning or crying or screaming, but oftentimes in silence. I'm a houseguest, after all.

And then, once the pain has been given an action and a voice, it eases. I'm usually left breathless, as this kind of grief isn't easy on the lungs. I find myself holding my breath for minutes at a time, fully exhaled, unable to let go of the grief. And then when I finally do inhale, my diaphragm relaxes and once I catch my breath, I'm usually okay for a while. But then, like an emotional version of a bad flu, it comes back again. It can be minutes or hours later. Except instead of the tight belly you get before vomiting, I get a tight chest that tells me I need to retreat to my bedroom and under the duvet. I took my mom's blanket from her house when we went to see Michael the first time, and eventually I washed it and it's now acting as my emotional support blanket.

See, people can tell me all they want that I’m not alone. But when I say alone, I don’t mean I feel isolated. I mean that the number of people on this planet who are completely and totally invested in me in a way that only your parents can be, has been brought down to 0. And yes, of course Fraser and Hudson are also completely invested in me. But it’s a different kind of investment. I don’t need to explain it — you know the difference. Your parents are there as guides, mentors, eventually confidants and trusted friends with unbreakable bonds. And those shoes are not easily filled. Friends come and go — even good ones. I’ve had that lesson beat over my head too many times. And having now seen how even the strongest, longest friendships can fall short when it truly matters, I now understand just how tenuous those bonds really are.

It’s tough to put into words, but there is a gaping hole in my mind where my parents sat when they were alive. It would keep track of where they lived, what they were up to, what their favourite foods were, when our next call was scheduled for, when I last saw them, when I would see them again. And now, that slot just sits there… doing what? Gathering dust, I guess. Empty. Void. Hollow. And nothing, nothing is capable of filling those slots. I feel like I’ve lost my two front teeth.

40 feels too young to be parent-less.

A mountain of tacos for a handful people

The following week, we were kept busy with the business of death: reporting mom's death to her life insurance agent and filling out all the forms that go with that, planning Mom's Celebration of Life, and sorting through Mom's things.

We had decided on February 14th for Mom's wake. It was her and my dad's wedding anniversary, so it felt like a fitting day to scatter her ashes in the same lake as I'd poured my dad's 8 years ago.

We hired a local assistant — a well-connected friend of our friends we were staying with called Santiago — to help us with the set up. I’d decided that I wanted to hire a boat to take out onto Lake Chapala and scatter her ashes with close friends and family in the afternoon, and then hold a reception at a restaurant or hotel.

I messaged all her friends and family to let them know about the date, and most declined. I hadn’t expected everyone to come, but I was still taken aback that even her closest friends wouldn’t be there. I didn’t fully understand their reasons, and while I tried to be empathetic, their absence stung. Not just for Mom, but for me. I was feeling desperately alone. And to have some family or close family friends come be by my side while I said goodbye to my Mama would have meant everything to me. Instead, the steady stream of ‘nos’ made my grief feel even heavier.

It was a bit tricky to find a venue due to the date, but we eventually settled on El Patio, Mom’s favourite live music and line dancing haunt. The management team (who are also a family) knew Mom well and offered us their tree-shaded terrace for the event at no charge — so long as we agreed to buy a lot of tacos. They even told us we could bring our own wine for the welcome drink, bless them.

After having already checked out a few venues, my intuition screamed at me that this was the place. So we went for it.

Next we needed to find a boat. Santiago found us some options that wouldn’t work for the ceremony, and we eventually found one on the other end of the lake that was the style I was looking for — flat bottomed with room to move around. But, it was bordered by ugly seafood restaurant signs, so we’d have to cover them somehow.

We came up with the idea of making a banner measured exactly to the signs, filled with pictures of Mom.

A few days before the wake, Fraser and I met Michael for dinner at El Patio to sample the menu (though we knew we were serving tacos). For me, it was just an excuse to feel Mom’s spirit at one of her favourite places. The food was nothing to write home about, but the entertainment was fabulous. Some local talent, The Crooners, were doing live covers of Sinatra, Elvis and the like.

At one point, they called a guy from the audience up to sing. I rolled my eyes, expecting him to be some average karaoke-Joe.

But when the bald man wearing all black stepped onto stage and opened his mouth, an achingly beautiful baritone voice came tumbling out that was both ground-shaking and haunting. Mom had sent him, I knew it.

She’d always asked me to play Ave Maria at her funeral. So I ran over to speak to him after his performance, and he agreed to sing a few songs at the wake.

The day of the wake rolled around and it was, as it usually is in this part of Mexico, a beautiful day. Sunny, clear skies, with a high of 26. We started the day by making bouquets out of the flowers Santiago had picked up from the flower market in Guadalajara.

The ceremony on the boat went so well.

It was a beautiful boat ride with a friendly young captain and a handful of people who loved Mom the most — including her last remaining sibling, my Uncle Pat, who decided last minute to come down from Canada to pay his respects.

Later at El Patio, I turned up to find a bouquet had been delivered from a new Substack friend,

Amy Delcambre

, which touched me so much.

Particularly when no other bouquets showed up from her many family and friends who had declined the invitation. Not. One.

Note: My friends, to the contrary, have been amazing. My besties abroad — my best girlfriends scattered all over the world — got together and sent me a generous donation towards finding inner peace during this time. My girlfriend Juliette messages me or Fraser almost daily. And I’ve had many friends and family sending sweet messages to check in on me. It’s just that none of them are, well, here. Mexico is far.

I quickly put out the final touches and got myself a welcome drink. People started trickling in — and I do mean trickling, as there was a maximum of about 20 people in attendance, but I tried desperately not to focus on this aspect (it was difficult not to).

Viktor the incredible opera singer opened the reception with a mindblowing rendition of Ave Maria:

…Followed by Halleluiah and Time to Say Goodbye. I had to redo my makeup afterwards, of course.

Then there were heartfelt speeches — including one sweetly sent by my bestie Juliette from Thailand —- followed by tacos and a wonderfully talented mariachi singer.

It was the perfect send-off for Mom.

A time to be selfish

So what now? Well, at the moment, being in Mexico feels good for my soul. It doesn’t feel right to leave yet. And my heart and head are in so much pain that all I can do is what my body tells me to do. I have to look after myself. I have to be selfish. Grief requires it.

Fraser left on Wednesday for Scotland. He went for Mikey’s funeral and to get our son Hudson. I’ll meet my boys at the airport on Tuesday next week. Our friends are selling their house (it’s incredible, btw, if you’re in the market for an investment opportunity in Lake Chapala) so they’ve very kindly given us until mid-March in their casita, when they’ll need to start showing the place.

We are still on course to move to Valencia in August, but Fraser and Hudson have still not been there. We were meant to be going there for a reconnaissance trip after we sold the villa, but then life happened. We have a few different realtors doing showings at our villa while we’re away — hopefully it sells soon.

Once it does, we also plan to head to Canada. I feel really called there at the moment, and Michael told me that Mom had been asking to go “home” — to Vancouver Island — in her last few months. I need to go. Plus, neither Hudson nor Fraser have ever been there. It’s time.

It all feels like a lot, but I’m just taking things one day, one step, one moment at a time. Some days are better than others. I know it’s a long road, so I’m not putting pressure and I’m being extra gentle with myself.

But my goodness, do I ever miss her.

P.S. If you want to be even more depressed, check out the post I wrote about losing my dad to cancer in Mexico 8 years ago.