There are little things that occasionally strike a cord in my heart. A few days ago, I was reading someone’s blog post and innocently enough, they wrote about their blog and that their mom reviews their posts. A harmless statement about their process, but it made me miss my mom.
We all have a different story, a compilation of chapters of our lives; some good and some bad. My mom passed away a little over a year ago, though her disease took her away a lot earlier than that. In fact, she was diagnosed just about five years ago to the day. It truly was a terrible chapter of my life, to watch her deteriorate in front of me, both physically and mentally. I was going to college, finding myself, balancing friendships, getting into a new relationship, dealing with a diabetes diagnosis, etc. Everyone knows its hard enough to balance sleep, a social life, and studying – the infamous triangle – let alone taking your mom to radiation therapy and convincing her chemo brain not to buy 50 of the same candle.
She passed away three and half years after her diagnosis. Notice I didn’t use the word ‘fight’ and say ‘she fought for three and a half years.’ It’s for a good reason, and I will come clean on my blog to say I have grown to detest that word. I think it sugarcoats what a horror cancer can be. It’s a glorification, and naturally, everyone likes to tell me how much my mom was a fighter. Honestly, it makes me scream inside (no offense to anyone who has said it to me, I know they had the best intentions). There was nothing glorious about her, or my family’s, experience.
My mom was a wonderful person, and it’s cruel that she got dealt the hand she did. It’s things like that that make me wonder. I do believe that everything happens for a reason, but I’d love to know what reason could possibly have justified my mom’s early, painful death, and my dad’s torment.
I could give some great reasons for all of that to not have happened. There are so many things I’d rather have- from silly to serious.
On the sillier side, I wish I could ask her to review my posts. I’d like to think that she would be proud of me for starting my blog, for starting to write in general. But then again I wonder if I would have started at all if she was still here. Part of the reason I started writing was as a coping mechanism because often I don’t know how to deal with my feelings (just ask my husband haha).
In fact, the first thing I ever wrote and actually put out there was about my mom and the afterlife, a fictional piece of what I’d like to think heaven was like (Pulling Daisies).
I am happy that I got to spend 18.5 wonderful years with her of disease-free happiness, and I admit that’s longer than some people have had. But it’s bittersweet. I knew her as a mom and I never had the opportunity to know her as a friend. With where I am at now in life, I have realized (much to my teenage self’s dismay*) that I am a lot like my mom.
*That’s not to say we had a bad relationship, we had a great one! I thought she was a little over the top about things, but now I get it. As a teenager, we naturally didn’t always see eye to eye – and then I would send myself to my room to read a book – I was quite the rebel.
I’d like to think that if she was still alive now, her and my dad would be happily living together. That I would push her to come get her nails done with me, not to worry about the money, I would pay for it.
I’d like to think that we would go out for lunch dates.
That she would read my blog and give me feedback.
That she would read the book I wrote.
That she would give me advice.
That we would hang out together.
That we would walk the dogs together.
That she would help me grow a garden like her’s at my house.
That she could have been a bigger part of my wedding.
That when I have kids, she could tell me her tips and tricks from when she raised me.
That I could ask her which outfit to wear – this one often pops in my head, interestingly enough. With my indecisive attitude, I always probed her constantly for opinions.
While my husband and I are flipping our house, we are staying with his parents. He happens to have a younger sister, whose exchanges with her mom don’t go unnoticed by me. Among them are frequent outfit questions, a trivial thing that I miss.
I don’t think you ever truly grow out of needing your mom (or your dad for that matter). There are always things I wish I could have her for, and they hit me randomly. Sure, I have a great mother-in-law and other people to fill in some of those missing pieces, but it will never be the same.
My mom had her way of doing things. Questions that I would want to ask my mom, I’ve asked others, and though they answer to the best of their ability, a lot of times it’s still not what I’m looking for. It’s not her answer. To a degree, I know the answers that I’m looking for, they are buried in my heart, where remnants of her exist and subconsciously direct me.