I. Can't. Call. My. Mom.

Imagine this being punctuated with sobs between each word, and you have me on Tuesday night. On the floor of my laundry room with the washer and dryer running, so my sweet, innocent children wouldn't hear me as they played upstairs.

A girl who doesn't know me all that well managed to touch on the one thing that's my biggest insecurity right now.

The details of what was said, and how, and what all was involved aren't important at all. She lost her Dad not that long ago and is grieving deeply. I'm still grieving deeply. We aren't completely rational 100% of the time.

But it brought to light another loss. I can't call my Mom.

From the time you're just a wee little one, who do you run to when you're hurt? Your Mom.

Then you grow up, and who do you call when you're hurt? Your Mom.

And when it seems the world has got your number, and you can't get anything right -- you call your Mom.

When I was in college and broke up with a boyfriend, I called my Mom.

When I was pregnant with Abbie, and the doctors told me they thought I'd lost her, I called my Mom.

Last spring, when a dear friend hurt me to the core, I called my Mom.

And she always had my back.

But now, I can't call my Mom.

In the span of a month this summer, we left our home and our friends, the church that we loved, our support group.... and lost my Mom. And I'm still reeling.

Spending two straight weekends immersed in the realities of breast cancer was carthartic, but incredibly raw at the same time. I've been incredibly blessed, but it still hurts.