Yes, I am mad.

What would you do if you knew you had only a year or two to live

I think everyone has heard of Eric Dane’s death just yesterday, February 19th, 2026. He died of ALS (Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis). Just like my mom did in 2020. It is a horrible disease. It is a progressive neurodegenerative disease that destroys motor neurons in the brain and spinal cord, leading to muscle weakness, atrophy, and eventually the loss of voluntary movement, speech, eating, and breathing.

Yes. That bad.

I got the call from my mom in July of 2019. It was July 22, 2019 exactly. She basically informed me over the phone while I was at work that she was diagnosed with ALS. Because I am me and I just read up on random things when I encounter them, I knew exactly what it meant.

Death.

I knew about it, because I had read up on Stephen Hawking’s death and I knew that it was: A disease that keeps the mind intact while it slowly destroys the body’s function.

My mom informed me on a Monday. She also died on Monday on August 3, 2020.

I did not even see her 6months before her death. I did not attend her funeral.

Thanks Covid! Thanks governments of the Europe and US.

What I really want to discuss today is the following. If you knew you were about to die — whether it is a year or three into the future and you knew you would not be able to do physical things much longer — what would you do?

I felt my mom went into hiding. She handled her affairs at home from home. Made sure my father knew where to find things, because she was always the one managing household and financials. That was it. She hid. She did not try to see anyone.

I almost always wondered what my last conversation with my mom would be like. I actually flew to Germany by myself to have it in September of 2019 after I had just spent a couple of weeks in August there with my kids. I went there by myself. To have that last conversation.

This conversation never really happened.

I also never got a letter. Or anything that someone may have wanted from their mom that was about to die.

That was simply not good enough for me. And I am mad about it. I am angry that she did not feel it was necessary to have a few last words with me.

For most of my childhood and growing up, I had to deal with the emotional immaturity of my parents. We never talked about feelings. We never admitted any failures, worries, and concerns. It was a constant confrontation. Mother against Father. Father against Mother. Parents against kids. No unity.

Not sure what I was expecting when I learned my mom was dying. Maybe some kind of reconciliation. Some kind words to me. Some advice maybe? Not even anything like, I want you to read or have this book or necklace or memorabilia. Nothing personal.

I got money instead. My brother got her car of the same value. My father made sure we got equal value. My mom never bothered with that type of detail. My brother got a lot. I got phone calls.

A few months, maybe a year before her diagnosis, my mom had complained about being tired all the time. “I think I am so tired now, because I was so stressed when you were little. I was constantly stressed out working and being a mother at the same time. That myst be it.” I did not have the heart to tell her that in the last 25 years, I had not lived with her and should probably no longer be blamed for her being tired. But I did not.

So I was the cause of her being tired, 25 years after I had moved out and 20 years after having left the country.

If I can give anyone a recommendation of what not to do. This would be it. If you know you are leaving, permanently, leave a few kind words. Your family, your kids, and maybe even your spouse rely on it. And friends.

My mom chose again a path that felt selfish in a way. Like the majority of her life, it was all about what she wanted to do and what she wanted to talk about. Her interests. Her copying my hobbies. I never had the moment of being in the center. The center was her needs.

When my daughter went to college. I wrote a letter to her stating how proud I was of her accomplishments and how happy I was that she was my daughter. I hid it in her suitcase the night before she was dropped off. I wanted to give her something to hold onto.

Another way of breaking the chain of generational pain.

I am listening to Eric Dane’s interview as we speak. He sounds exactly like my mom did when she was at the same stage of the illness. Slurring words. The same posture. It takes a lot of courage to show himself to the world like this. It is impressive. I appreciate it.

A complete stranger did more for my ability to feel closure from witnessing a terrible illness and death than what my own mom ever did for me.

Thanks, Eric Dane. May you rest in peace.