A Crash Course in Life My Mom’s Stroke and New Normal

Last Saturday, my mom had a stroke. In an instant, our lives shifted dramatically.

Overnight, her left vision was impaired, and her cognition declined by about a third. She went from being an independent stage 4 lung cancer patient—exercising, traveling, and living well—to needing help with her iPhone, struggling to get out of bed, and undergoing cognitive assessments 4-6 times a day.

Since I arrived in Vancouver, though, she’s started to regain strength. Slowly, she’s walking on her own again and becoming more aware of what happened to her cognitively. Her nurse says she’s stubborn but cute—and she really is.

Sometimes, she acts like a 3-year-old. But when I set up her iPhone with her hearing aid and glasses, she transformed into the mom I saw just ten days ago—vibrant and full of life.

This duality brings me a strange sense of normalcy.

A Harsh Reality: The Opening with the Neurologist

Talking with the neurologist shattered me. A Spanish doctor, calm and clinical, told me bluntly that my mom’s brain injury was unlikely to improve. He also said that after consulting our oncologist, she’s technically living beyond her expected time on targeted therapy cancer medication.

It felt like a knife slicing through my heart. I tried to keep it together, but I couldn’t help crying. At that moment, a handsome social worker appeared—his warmth and empathy starkly contrasted the neurologist’s cold logic.

We talked not just about my mom but also about the emotional toll I was carrying. His kindness made a tough day more bearable and gave me clarity: I had to start accepting what was happening. That’s when I decided to pick up my writing again.

Letting Go and Learning to Adapt

I’ve realized that, just like my mom’s brain, my mind is also in shock. Every day is an exercise in adapting to this new reality. I told myself: Elliot, you need to let go of the version of your mother you once knew and meet her where she is now.

I’m learning to navigate life with her stroke, stage 4 lung cancer, and now her struggles with hearing, vision, and cognition. It’s unbelievably hard.

It’s fucking hard.

It’s really fucking hard.

The stroke has brought a whole new set of challenges I never anticipated. But thanks to a network of specialists—neurologists, OTs, PTs, social workers, nurses, and my family in Vancouver—I’m finding the tools and language to cope.

Even as I write this, I’ve cried more than I thought possible.

Living in Duality: Light and Darkness

Every day, I live in two worlds. I sit in front of a beautiful view of Yaletown, False Creek, and the North Shore mountains. It looks like a postcard-perfect resort. But inside, there’s quiet suffering.

My mom’s cognitive confusion is heartbreaking. After spending 7 hours with her every day, at night, with the help with the nurse, she phoned me that said why I haven't visited every day. She told me she's hungry she hadn’t eaten the whole day despite me making her soup every morning. But when I see her savour each bite of that soup, she’s like a joyful child, and that tiny moment of happiness melts my heart.

It’s both love and hardship.

It’s both new and familiar.

A Candid Conversation and a Birthday Gift

My mom and I have shared some deeply meaningful conversations amid these challenges. On Thursday, she teared up and said:

“Elliot, I’m sorry life has been unfair to you. Your dad passed away so young, and now I’m here. You have to deal with all of this. I wish I could just give you an ordinary life.”

We both broke down. It was one of the most memorable moments we’ve ever had—an unexpected gift for my birthday. She had flown to Toronto to celebrate with me just 20 days ago. Now, looking back, I realize how precious that memory is. I told her that life isn’t about fairness. Thanks to you, I don’t have to worry about money, and that’s more than enough.

A Question Without an Answer

Is my mom’s stroke a curse or a gift? I don’t know yet.

I know that this experience is forcing me to confront life’s duality—the joy and the pain, the love and the loss—all at once.

And so, this is my October post.