One of the most difficult parts of living abroad is to experience the sickness of a loved one from afar. It feels unreal, the uncertainty lays heavy on your body, to a point where you won’t be able to move, think or make sense of things. At least that’s how I felt in the initial stage of my mom’s lung cancer. This is how I would describe it:
1. It forced me all the way to the ground.
It was March 28th 2024, I was waking up at my in-laws home in Bornholm, a Danish island in the Baltic Sea off the south coast of Sweden. It was Easter break and I was getting ready to have breakfast with my husband and his parents.
As I reached for my phone, I noticed a voice message from my aunt on WhatsApp. Her tone was serious. She told me my mom had been hospitalized. My heart sank. For weeks, my mom had been with a strong cold that made it hard for her to breathe. I’d begged her to see a doctor, urging, “Mom, please go to the hospital. Don’t wait until it’s unbearable.” But she had assured me she was fine—until March 27, when she finally sought help because breathing had become impossible.
Listening to my aunt’s voice message, I felt a flash of anger. Why had my mom waited so long? I took a deep breath, trying to quiet the frustration. It’s her body, her life, her choice, I reminded myself. As much as I wished she would take her health more seriously, it was ultimately her decision.
Later that day, once morning arrived in Colombia, my aunt called with an update. The doctors had done a chest X-ray. The results showed a small black mark on my mom’s left lung.
“I’ll be honest,” my aunt said hesitantly. “The doctors don’t know exactly what it is yet, but they’re preparing to transfer her to an oncology center for further tests.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I was sitting at my in-laws’ neighbours’ dining table. They had invited us for Easter lunch. Excusing myself, I moved to the living room to replay my aunt’s message, needing to make sure I hadn’t misheard her. I felt like the world around me was vanishing and the voices were disappearing, I was alone with my thoughts and fear. I was out of breath and felt the need of fresh air. I stood up, I glanced at my husband, whispered that I had to leave, and made a hasty exit. I left immediately towards the entrance of my in-laws home. I stood in my father-in-law’s small garage in front of his workshop which opens onto a vast, open field. I bursted in tears causing a physical crumple in on myself forcing me all the way down to the ground.
Brené Brown describes this feeling as anguish in her book Atlas of the Heart: “a feeling that comes for our bones.” She’s not wrong. The weight of the unknown—the fear, the helplessness, the anger—was crushing, and I could feel it reverberating through every part of me.
2. The overthinking, what to do now?
My mom was transferred from Cajicá, a small town about an hour and 30 minutes by car from Bogotá, the capital city. The place she was transferred to wasn’t an oncology center; later, we would learn it was a facility for palliative care patients.
Mom didn’t need to be in that center—she wasn’t in need of palliative care. To this day, we don’t understand why she was transferred there. At that facility, she was diagnosed with tuberculosis, and as a result, she was placed in an airborne precautions isolation room. My aunt (her caregiver) had to wear a full medical suit, gloves, and a mask whenever she visited, as tuberculosis is highly contagious.
The antibiotics they gave my mom helped ease her coughing and breathing. This was necessary so her lungs would be less bloated, allowing the doctors to perform a CT scan on her chest to check if the lump had disappeared. While we were waiting for this to happen, I was talking to Camilo, my brother—not by blood, but by a bond forged over more than 10 years of friendship. Our connection had grown into a brotherhood.
We were planning a short trip to Spain in May. He needed a break from a difficult situation he was experiencing where he was living for some years now in Wales, UK. However, due to my mom’s condition, I started feeling hesitant about the trip and began considering traveling to Colombia instead, to be with her and my family while we figured out what was in her lungs.
Things in Bogotá were taking too long. My mom was still hospitalized, and being so far away felt wrong. During a call, Camilo reassured me, saying, “Lu, if you’re worried about our trip to Spain, don’t even think about it. We’ll meet another time. Please, just organize whatever you need in Copenhagen and book your tickets to Colombia. Your mom comes first.”
And that’s what I did. I booked my tickets for April 19th. However, I had no idea that call would be our last. On April 13th, I got a call from Camilo’s biological sister. She was in Colombia and called to tell me something horrible had happened to Camilo. But that’s another story that deserves its own article.
When I landed in Bogotá, my mom was released from the hospital the following day. By then, all we knew was that after her CT scan, the doctors still saw the lump in her lung. She was now able to breathe as normally as before. From April 20th until the start of May, we went through a series of exams to finally get an accurate diagnosis. In the second week of May, my mom was diagnosed with lung cancer. The following days are a bit of a blur for me—too much to handle back then. I do remember that in June, my husband traveled to Bogotá, and we made sure to spend as much time with our Colombian family as possible.
During the first week of June, my mom had an oncologist appointment. That day, we were finally going to understand the stage of her cancer, which would determine the treatment plan. I remember being with my cousin (she’s like a sister to me) and our partners, waiting downstairs at the hospital for my mom and aunt. We all wanted to be there to support her after the diagnosis.
An hour later, they came downstairs, and I could see a hint of relief in my mom’s eyes. They said her tumor was one of the “easiest” to treat. Her cancer was at stage three, and the treatment would include a specific number of radiotherapy and chemotherapy sessions administered simultaneously.
3. Hope and a reality check it’s around the corner.
On December 3rd, I was in my apartment with my husband and Ollie, our dog, preparing dinner. While the potatoes roasted in the oven, I stood at the counter chopping thyme and mint for a dressing. It was an ordinary evening until my phone rang—a video call from my cousin. That day, my mom and aunt had an appointment with the oncologist to review two recent CT Scans my mom had taken the week before. I knew they planned to visit my cousin’s place in Bogotá afterward for lunch and to talk about the appointment. So, when the call came, I felt a nervous anticipation.
I picked up the call.
“Hi, Lu, what are you doing?” my cousin asked.
“Just finishing up dinner,” I replied, glancing at the cutting board. “Are you with Mom and Auntie?”
She nodded and turned the camera to my mom. Mom greeted me, her voice tinged with weariness. I noticed her hair had grown back some, and her eyebrows were filling in too.
“How did it go with the oncologist?” I asked, holding my breath.
She tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. She passed the phone to my aunt, and in that moment, I knew the news wasn’t good.
“The doctor looked at both X-rays,” my aunt began, her voice steady but heavy. “He said the cancer is growing. It’s nearing an airway. She’ll need to continue with chemotherapy.”
My mind flooded with questions I couldn’t bring myself to ask. What does this mean? What happens next? I was stunned, grasping for something to say.
“Okay,” I managed, my voice quiet. “So… what does this mean for her?”
My mom took the phone back. “I just don’t want to feel any pain,” she said softly. “I’ll keep going with the treatment, but if the chemo becomes too much, we’ll have to talk about other options.”
Her words cut through me, but I understood. “No matter what,” I told her, “I’ll be here. I’ll support you all the way.”
In that moment, the ordinary evening dissolved, replaced by the weight of uncertainty and love. I hung up the call and returned to the kitchen, but nothing felt the same.
4. Got to live one day at a time
Life is full of uncertainty, yet we’re often taught to focus on preparing for the future rather than fully living in the present. When cancer entered our family’s life, it became painfully clear that reality doesn’t wait for plans. Cancer, in its harshness, demands patience and perseverance. It tests the limits of our mental strength, asking us to face each day with courage, no matter how uncertain the outcome.
I’ve watched my mom embody this resilience in ways I can only admire. When things haven’t worked as expected, when the pain is stronger than anything she’s experienced before, she hasn’t given up. She finds the strength to get out of bed, face the day, and fight on. Her determination is nothing short of inspirational.
It’s humbling to witness her bravery. She carries this disease in her body, feels its pain firsthand, and yet continues to move forward. She tells me things like, “Please don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay. You need to focus on your life, on getting back on track. You have so much ahead of you to live for.”
Her words meant everything, especially during the two months I was on sick leave between October and November 2024. My body shut down after she sent me a photo that shocked me. It was late September when she started losing significant amounts of hair. Instead of clinging to what cancer was taking from her, she made a bold decision—she went to the hairdresser and shaved her head.
When she sent me that photo, it took me a while to gather the strength to open it. Seeing her bald for the first time felt like a physical blow, as though I was losing my mom piece by piece while being 9,000 kilometers away from her. It was a moment that broke me.
This journey isn’t just hers—it affects all of us who love her. But in her unwavering courage, my mom teaches me that even in the face of profound loss, life demands to be lived. One day at a time.