Mateo’s Final Days – A Mother’s Memory of October 9th
October 9th. A date carved forever into my heart. A year ago today, it became the second hardest day of my life. The first was the day we lost you. The third was the day we learned you had cancer. But October 9th… that was the day we were told your cancer was growing too fast and that there was nothing more that could be done.
I remember waking up that morning filled with something I hadn’t felt in a long time — hope. We were in Memphis, ready to start your treatment at St. Jude’s. It was our first full day there, and I thought it marked a new beginning.
I dressed you carefully, watching your sleepy little eyes blink open as I whispered that today was going to be a big day — that we were going to beat this.
The schedule was packed from the start. Scans, bloodwork, doctor after doctor. Everyone we met was kind, their smiles gentle, their voices reassuring.
They spoke about possibilities — about a clinical trial that could give you a chance. I held onto every word, letting them fill the cracks in my tired soul.
We made it through the whole day. You were such a trooper, my brave little warrior. Our last stop was a magnesium replacement that was supposed to take a few hours.
I remember sitting there, your small hand in mine, as you played with the IV cords, laughing at the little beeping machine beside you. I smiled, too — because in that moment, everything still felt possible.
Then my phone rang.
It was the doctor who was supposed to lead your clinical trial. Her voice was calm but tight, asking where we were and if she could come see us.
My heart dropped. It was already past 7 p.m. Doctors don’t make visits that late unless something’s wrong. I tried to tell myself it was just a formality, that maybe she needed another signature or wanted to check on your labs. But deep down, I already knew.
When she arrived, her eyes said it all before her words did. She sat down next to me and pulled up the new scans. I felt the air leave my body as she pointed out the glowing spots — places where the cancer had spread. “It’s growing faster than we expected,” she said quietly. “We don’t think there’s anything left to do.”
I stared at the screen, unable to believe what I was seeing. Just hours ago, I had been planning your treatment. Now, I was being told to prepare to say goodbye. I pulled you into my arms and held you so tightly I could feel your heartbeat against mine. I wanted to freeze that moment, to make time stop right there.
The doctor told me that a hospice nurse would come by our housing that evening, and that I should call your dad and sisters — that they should come as soon as possible because… because you didn’t have much time left. Those words shattered me. I nodded numbly, but I couldn’t breathe.
After she left, I asked Grandma to hold you for a moment. I stepped outside, the cool Memphis night hitting my face like a wave. I called Anthony.
My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone. When he answered, I could barely speak. I didn’t know how to say it — how to tell him that instead of packing to move out here for treatment, he needed to pack to come say goodbye.
There was silence on the other end. Then quiet sobs. That silence still echoes in my memory.
When I went back inside, you were asleep in Grandma’s arms. I took you and just held you, rocking you gently while silent tears streamed down my face. The world outside went on as usual — cars passing, people laughing in the hallway — but for me, time had stopped.
That night, I lay next to you, memorizing every breath you took. I whispered to you about how proud I was, how much I loved you, how we weren’t giving up. I told you we were still going to try to make it to the 17th for your clinical trial. We were still going to fight, no matter what anyone said.
You looked so peaceful, so unaware of the storm that had just crashed through our world. I wanted to protect you from all of it — from the pain, from the fear, from the truth. I kept telling myself that maybe, just maybe, miracles could still happen. That somehow, there would be a different ending to this story.
But deep down, I knew.
I only had you for eight more days. Eight precious, impossible, heartbreaking days.
And yet, even now, I hold on to the memory of your strength, your smile, the way you faced every needle, every scan, every long hospital night with courage far beyond your years.
October 9th will always be the day hope and heartbreak collided. The day I realized that love doesn’t end, even when life does. Because though I lost you, you’re still here — in every sunrise, in every quiet night when I whisper your name. 💔
