Hi reader friends,

I debated myself for a long time about putting this update out there. After all, this is not a personal blog but my author website, reserved for sharing my creative ventures, literary musings, and silly speculative stories. But that’s the thing about boundaries: they are difficult to keep at bay.

Take real life, for example. If your life partner is sick but you have to go to work, you go to work. But can you 100% separate your mindset on the job from your worries about your loved one’s health? Unless you’re a sociopath on the Dexter end of the spectrum, you can’t. You’ll text the sick person to check in, you’ll internally guilt yourself for not calling off and staying home to take care of them, you’ll call them on your lunch break and ask what you can pick up on the way home. All while also attempting to do your job and keep the bills paid.

That’s the internal state I’ve been living in for the past eight months. When my mother was diagnosed with stage 3 ovarian cancer in October 2025, I faced a difficult choice. As her only child (and only family member on the North American continent) I decided to dedicate my time to helping her wage her battle against cancer. That meant taking many days off work to transport her to (and sit with her during) chemo infusions, radiation sessions, specialist appointments, and other grueling treatments I won’t go into here. As her body proved resistant to virtually every form of medical treatment and she received the dreaded “6 months to live” diagnosis, I stayed by her side.

It was a hard journey to accompany her on; my mom’s demeanor and humor remained steadfast while her physical frame diminished every day. Though determined to be with her each step of the way, life, of course, refused to slow down. I had earned my Master of Science degree! My first standalone novella was published! I’d just attended my first StokerCon in Pittsburgh! I’d attained these happy achievements even as my mom went into hospice care — outpatient style, in her own home. She celebrated each of these milestones with me.

She cheerfully purchased a copy of my book — even though she never read a word due to her language barrier and the malicious fatigue that had beset her in those final weeks. She virtually attended my graduation ceremony, viewing the live stream and complaining to me afterwards about the poor camera placement. She’d suffered a fall in her home which necessitated my calling the paramedics because I couldn’t lift her up by myself — and a day later, she insisted I attend my first StokerCon anyway (an event I’d booked months prior and she was excited for me to attend). She made me tear up when she said I should go because “you should do something for yourself, and be happy doing it.”

And so, I went. It was a great time (below picture for proof). At the con, I was lucky enough to confide in a couple of fellow Horror Writers Association of Ohio friends who’d lived through a similar nightmare themselves. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: horror authors are some of the kindest, most empathetic creatures on God’s green earth. They understand pain, loss, and grief. They ooze compassion and care, even while they pen stories about ghosts and carnage. The two qualities are not mutually exclusive.

But as I returned from the horror con’s festivities, still savoring the camaraderie, the enlightening panels, the Bram Stoker Awards, and the Final Frame film festival, I faced a harsh reality: my mother was not getting better. I returned to Columbus on June 7, and that week my mom was as eager to hear about my exploits at the con as her health was eager to plummet.

A week later, on June 14, I watched my mom take her final breath. It was a moment as sacred as it was horrifying, and I don’t know if I will ever publicly speak of it in detail. Suffice to say, my mom’s months of suffering had come to an end, and she went on to another life — a better one, I hope, than she had on this planet. The night before she passed, she prayed with me, talking to Jesus and asking him to receive her soon. I believe he answered that prayer, promptly welcoming her home the next day.

Writing my mother’s obituary was unlike any other piece of fiction or nonfiction I’d ever written. I agonized over it for hours before hitting Send to the funeral home director. How do you summarize a human life? Especially that of the person who made you, and then made you who you are? My mom has meant everything to me; she’d set standards of beauty and strength of character, a no-quit work ethic, and the staunch joy of living. She’d fought every power there was, from domestic violence to Soviet strictures to American prejudices, and brought me to the United States to give me a life of opportunity and success. Mission accomplished, Mom!

And sadly, now she is no more. Which makes me an orphan. There aren’t words in my vocabulary to describe the sheer silence emanating from the world now. It’s a silence nobody else can hear — save for the few who loved and cherished my mom as much as I did. It’s been a couple of weeks now, and I still will reach for my phone to text or call her to check in, before I promptly remember. Oh, that’s right… there’s only silence on that end.

But through it all, I must persevere. My wife and I returned to our jobs after eight days of bereavement, resuming work duties as if nothing ever happened. The world at large didn’t stop — only our world did — and we must do our part to play along with the charade. But on the inside, there’s a pain that will likely never go away; maybe it will dull over time. Maybe.

Ironically, as I’ve been writing this blog entry, I’ve gotten multiple acceptances by publishers. Um, yay? These are stories I submitted months ago coming back as enthusiastically accepted. Somehow, though, the thrill of publication doesn’t hit the same way it used to. I will post later about what’s coming out soon in the fictional realms in which I swim. And maybe someday I will feel just as excited as I used to about these stories finding their homes and audiences. But right now… the silence is just too loud.

Rest in peace, Mama. I love you — until we meet again.

-MR