Advertisement
Commentary
When my mother died at 58, aging became uncharted territory
When I was 31, my mother died at 58. Her departure — just 3 months from cancer diagnosis to death — was quick, like a hard slap to the face that you don’t feel until after the welts rise.
Before she died, a nurse said, “Your mother got to see you grow up and get married. She’s leaving knowing you’re okay.” I had a partner, a good job, and a new house. For the next 27 years I had babies, started businesses, made and lost friends, and I did it all without my mother. So, was I okay? Sure. But I’ve felt her loss every single day.
Nearly 30 years later, in the months leading up to when I officially outlived her, my grief, which had softened over time, became sharp again. I sobbed my way up and down grocery store aisles. I saw her doppelgänger in the faces of 80-year-old women. I replaced their features with hers.
Growing up, people said, “You look just like your mother.” I compare my face now, at 58, to her face then and we could be sisters. We both have grey hair, are thicker in the middle than we’d like and are chatty with strangers. But I don’t know how she would look at 70. Or at 80. When I lost her, I also lost my roadmap to getting old.
Would my mother have cataracts like I do? Would her knees creak as mine do? I can’t answer these questions but I do know my mother wouldn’t let inevitable aches and pains stop her from doing the hard work of living. The most important lesson I learned from my mother is nothing worthwhile comes without struggle.
Sometimes she feels as present to me as if she were sitting in the same room. Is it possible that as I’m thinking of her, she’s thinking of me? Medium Laura Renee, who happens to be my cousin, says spirits are all around us. She says all humans are connected through energy, and when we feel the presence of someone who’s passed, it’s likely them stopping in to visit. She says we’re all capable of communicating if we learn to listen; her antenna is just higher.
I don’t know if I believe this. I’ve always been of the mind that what you see is what you get, and in the case of years, we don’t always get as many as we want. I think it’s common for those who live longer than a parent to look at aging as a long, dark tunnel. The destination is certain; the journey is not.
For much of my life I assumed I would die young. I had been sure that, like her, I’d be gone by 58. Now that the date has come and gone, thoughts of my early demise have miraculously gone as well. Before, whenever death whispered in my ear, I listened. I didn’t want to be taken by surprise like my mother had. The tap on my shoulder became a wave, then a distant vision. Now, I shoo death away. When I ponder my mortality, instead of “I’ll be gone soon,” I tell myself “I'm not going anywhere.”
I think it’s common for those who live longer than a parent to look at aging as a long, dark tunnel.
Because at 58, I feel pretty good. Sometimes I feel great. I have so much life left in me. When she was dying, as I helped my mother into bed she muttered, “Please God, let me have 10 more years.” Her prayer wasn’t answered, so I’m answering it for her. Every day I remind myself, “I’ll never be this young again.” When I’m 80, I’ll look at myself now and say, “I was so young.” I don’t dwell on her loss of years and my loss of her. She was here long enough to teach me everything I need to know: marvel in the wonder of life, never lose my sense of humor and be grateful for every day.
In my sewing supplies I have a bright pink spool of thread that was in my mother’s basket. She likely bought it to make a dress, or maybe a costume for me or my sisters. I don’t know if she sewed because she was thrifty or because she enjoyed it — probably both. Recently, I held the spool and pictured her at her sewing machine. My childhood self danced on my toes, waiting to wear the creation my mother was making with love sewn into every stitch.
Maybe Medium Laura Renee is right. Maybe these memories are my mother saying hello. Or maybe not. It doesn’t matter, not to me. Because while on some level these years are truly uncharted, I’m not doing it alone.
The only certainty in life is death, but until my own dust returns to dust, I will live every day as well as I can — not just for me, but for her. Who knows? Maybe, somewhere in the ether, she’s living it with me too.
