Aren't where the years take anyone the great mystery of the future? And, being 60, the realization that I have more time in back of me than in front is something that I grapple with almost daily. I'm not sure if my mom ever thought of her life in those terms. As we sat with her in her hospital room, I know she was saddened by her ability to get better. At one point, she apologized, telling me how sorry she was for not getting strong enough to come home.
I never really knew if she was aware that her time with us was nearing its end. The night we moved her to hospice, I lied and told her that the doctors wanted to transport her somewhere that they could take better care of her. I'd like to think that she believed me. She fell asleep, and on that Tuesday night, the heavens unleashed a storm like I had not experienced in years. Thunder shook the rooftops, lightening split the sky and torrential rain pelted down as if the clouds themselves were feeling my pain. I thought that if there was ever a night to leave this earth, then this was most certainly it. Yet, the storm passed, the sky turned blue and my mom lay peacefully asleep in her bed. Two nights later, after we had spent the day in her room, after we drove my father home, I turned to my brother and stated.
"We have to go back."
"We'll see her tomorrow," he said.
"No. We didn't kiss her goodnight. We have to go back."
It was the end of discussion. So, after a bite to eat, we returned to her room. And, I will believe this until it is also my time to leave this earth - my mother knew we had come back. She was waiting. Later that same night, as I was finally having a much needed cocktail, when my phone lit up, I knew.
Did she predict where I would be in five years ? Did she know that her leaving was the only way for me to move onto my next chapter? Despite what Rosemarie thought of herself, my mother was a smart woman. When we whispered that it was okay for her to leave, that we were going to be ok, that we loved her, that she could let go - I believe she heard every word. Even though I wanted her to stay with us and I was at peace knowing the outcome, for these past five years, I have been angry that the universe took her when it did. Some days, I am able to turn that disappointment into happy memories, and others, I can hardly believe that I have to face another day without her. As she got older, her birthday celebrations were low key. When I lived in New York, I would take the train up from Manhattan and we'd have Chinese food in an incredibly tacky behemoth of a restaurant. Sometimes, we'd go bowling and always, we'd have dessert back in the house I had spent so much of my childhood wanting to leave. In 1990, she knew I should never return, in fact, before I relocated for three years, she surprised me by saying, "Why do you want to come back here?" At first, I was taken aback that she wasn't overjoyed. It was years later, on our trips to Europe that I realized she knew more about me than I did about myself.
Five years later from that fateful summer, I wish I could show her where I am in life. To tell her what I've learned from all those years in California and show her what I have built in Texas. The night she left, my world shifted more than any earthquake was able to move me. In her way, she allowed me to let go of the last remaining slice of my time in Boston. This week, especially, she would have hated the amount of snow that pummeled the state. It made me think of one of my favorite memories with her during the Blizzard of '78 and the two of us traipsing through the snow and sinking into the snow drifts just to get to the grocery store. Maybe that's why I'm never bothered by all this insane panic buying that people do these days. We survived and had fun doing it.
I wish I could tell people the pain of missing someone you love diminishes, but it does not. The feeling morphs and shifts into something that's hard to describe. It's at times a happy memory, other times it's a sharp pain of sadness, or a flash of a smile or the sound of a laugh. The feeling of loss never goes away and you keep the memory alive by telling stories so you can bring the one you lost to life for those who never had the joy of knowing them.
When I look at the date stamp on pictures from my phone, I always think to myself how we never really knew how much time we had left with each other. But, that's the way of life, isn't it? We don't know how much time there is for any of us. The world can shift in the span of any number of years or even moments. So, in five years, I just want to look back and know that I gave everything I had to the people I loved the most while they were with me. The ones who are no longer by my side - whether by choice or fate - were in my life for a reason.
So, every year, I will continue to celebrate my mom on her birthday in a way that made both of us happy. The restaurant may not be as tacky, but the food will be just as good, and most likely, unhealthy. As always, I will toast to her and realize that there are no regrets - well, except for not walking out of that aforementioned interview. But something tells me that chance will happen again. And then I can imagine calling my mom and hearing her laugh.
"No, you didn't? Well, good for you. What is wrong with people?"
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