Several very thoughtful people reach out to me on the 26th of January, knowing it would be a difficult memory. But you know what? It actually starts around the 20th, which was inauguration day in 2013 for President Obama’s second term.

I distinctly remember that day–a Sunday–by mom’s side while she was in the recliner and fading in and out of consciousness. It’s when I could no longer explain away some inconsistencies I saw the day before or the day before that when we went to the hospital for a “routine” PET/CT scan of her liver.

It was Sunday when I could not make sense of why mom seemed to be a million miles away. When I would speak to her and she wouldn’t hear me. When her eyes had a distant stare. When I would beg her to please take her medication and she would allow me to put the pill in her mouth but then she would forget to swallow. It was this day that I was truly terrified. And it’s this day that plays over in my head every January.

The one bittersweet note of comedy in an otherwise horrible day — and the way I know that mom’s spirit was still there, buried very deep by the Cancer overtaking her liver but still present — was a wry comment made during a brief period of lucidness. She sits up a bit in the chair on her elbows, squints and focuses on the television, and with an exasperated sigh says “get that man off the television!” (Mom wasn’t so much an Obama detractor as an equal-opportunity hater of politics).

I imagine that in 2017, when there’s another inauguration ceremony, it will be especially hard for me. For now, it’s just the start of a week-long sadness that washes over me. Even though I know to expect it, there’s nothing I can do to stop that wave from crashing into me. I just have to hold my breath until the 26th.