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2018 began with the notion that this was the very first year that my mother had not been alive since 1941. It marked the start of my saying my mom died last year instead of last month or in May or in the spring as I had been saying. It was, in its way, the beginning of acceptance or one more step on the journey of acceptance of the loss of the woman I loved more than I knew when she was living. This year, 2019, came around with a similar kind of somber thought but along with it an acknowledgement of the never-ness of seeing her again, of never hearing her actual voice, of never talking and laughing with her which is a deeper, more lasting kind of acceptance, I guess.
I did the math the other day and realized that my mother was 52 when her mother died, which is the same age I was when she died. She lived eight years beyond when her mother died. I wonder if I will outlive her? I should with modern medicine and my loving family, new horizons and all the things they say keep a person happily adding years to their life. But, as they also say, tomorrow is promised to no one, so we will see.
I do also wonder how my mom felt about losing her mother. She never spoke about it except to say that she couldn’t force her to get more treatment for the cancer, couldn’t make her keep up the fight. My mom kept up the fight, until the very end she was…
